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A Tale of Truth. 



"Are you for a walk? " said Montra- 
ville to his companion, as they arose 
from table; " are you for a walk, or shall 
Ave order a chaise and proceed to Ports- 
mouth?" Belcour preferred the form- 
er; and they sauntered out to view the 
town and to make remarks on the in- 
habitants as they returned from church. 

Montraville was a lieutenant in the 
army; Belcour was his brother officer; 
they had been to take leave of their 
friends previous to their departure for 
America, and were now returning to 
Portsmouth, where the troops waited or- 



Charlotte Temple. 

ders for embarkation. They had stopped 
at Chicester to dine; and knowing they 
had sufficient time to reach the place of 
destination before dark, and vet allow 
them a walk, had resolved, it being Sun- 
day afternoon, to take a survey of the 
Chichester ladies as they returned from 
their devotions. 

They had gratified their curiosity, and 
were preparing to return to the inn with- 
out honoring any of the belles with par- 
ticular attention, when Madame Du 
Pont, at the head of her school, descend- 
ed from the church. Such an assem- 
blage of youth and innocence naturally 
attracted the young soldiers; they 
stopped; and as the little cavalcade 
passed almost involuntarily pulled off 
their hats. A tall, elegant girl looked 
at Montraville and blushed; he instantly 
recollected the features of Charlotte 
Temple, whom he had once seen and 
danced with at a ball at Portsmouth. At 

Charlotte Temple. 


the time he thought her a very lovely 
child, she being then only thirteen; but 
the improvement two years had made in 
her person, and the blush of recollection 
which suffused her cheeks as she passed, 
awakened in his bosom new and pleas- 
ing ideas. Vanity led him to think that 
pleasure at again beholding him might 
have occasioned the emotion he had wit- 
nessed; and the same vanity led him to 
wish to see her again. 

" She is the sweetest girl in the 
world," said he, as he entered the inn. 
Belcour started. " Did you not notice 
her?" continued Montraville. "She 
had on a blue bonnet, and with a pair of 
lovely eyes of the same color, has con- 
trived to make me feel devilish odd 
about the heart." 

"Pooh!" said Belcour; "a musket- 
ball from our friends, the Americans, 
may, in less than two months make you 
feel worse." 


Charlotte Temple. 

u I never think of the future," replied 
Montraville, " but am determined to 
make the most of the present, and would 
willingly compound with any kind Fa- 
miliar who would inform me who the 
girl is and how I might be likely to ob- 
tain an interview." 

But no kind Familiar at that time ap- 
peared, and the chaise which they had 
ordered driving up to the door, Montra- 
ville and his companion were obliged to 
take leave of Chichester and its fair in- 
habitant and proceed on their journey. 

But Charlotte had made too great an 
impression on his mind to be easily erad- 
icated ; having, therefore, spent three 
whole days in thinking of her, and en- 
deavoring to form some plan of seeing 
her, he determined to set off for Chi- 
chester, and trust to chance either to 
favor or frustrate his designs. Arriv- 
ing at the verge of the town, he dis- 
mounted, and sending the servant for- 

Charlotte Temple. 


ward with the horses proceeded toward 
the place, where, in the midst of an ex- 
tensive pleasure-ground, stood the man- 
sion which contained the lovely Char- 
lotte Temple. Montraville leaned on a 
broken gate and looked earnestly at the 
house. The wall which surrounded it 
was high, and perhaps the Arguses who 
guarded the Hesperian fruit within were 
more watchful than those famed of old. 

" 'Tis a romantic attempt," said he; 
u and should I even succeed in seeing 
and conversing with her, it can be pro- 
ductive of no good. I must of necessity 
leave England in a few days, and prob- 
ably may never return; why, then, 
should I endeavor to engage the affec- 
tions of this lovely girl, only to leave her 
a prey to a thousand inquietudes of 
which at present she has no idea ? I will 
return to Portsmouth and think no more 
about her." 

The evening was now closed; a serene 


( !harlotte Temple. 

stillness reigned; and the moon with lier 
silver crescent faintly illuminated the 

The mind of Montraville was calmed 
by the serenity of the surrounding ob- 
jects. " I will think on her no more," 
said he, and turned with an intention to 
leave the place; lut as he turned he saw 
the gate which led to the pleasure- 
grounds open and two women come out, 
who walked arm in arm across the field. 
" I will at least see who these are," said 

He overtook them, and after saluting, 
begged leave to see them into the more 
frequented part of the town; but how T 
was he delighted, when, waiting for an 
answer, he discovered, under the con- 
cealment of a large bonnet, the face of 
Charlotte Temple. 

He soon found means to ingratiate 
himself with her companion, who was a 
French teacher at the school 2 and at 

Charlotte Temple. 

1 1 

parting, slipped a letter he had purpose- 
ly written into Charlotte's hand, and 
five guineas into that of mademoiselle, 
who promised she wouM endeavor to 
bring her young charge into the field 
again the next evening. 



Mr. Temple was the youngest son of 
a nobleman, whose fortune was by no 
means adequate to the antiquity, grand- 
eur, and, I may add, pride of the family. 
He saw his elder brother made complete- 
ly wretched by marrying a disagreeable 
woman, whose fortune helped to prop 
the sinking dignity of the house; and he 
beheld his sisters legally prostituted to 
old, decrepit men, whose titles gave 


( !harlotte Temple. 

them consequence in the eyes of the 
world, and whose affluence rendered 
them splendidly miserable. 

" I will not sacrifice internal happiness 
for outward show," said he; " I will seek 
content; and if I find her in a cottage, 
will embrace her with as much cordial- 
ity as I should if seated on a throne." 

Mr. Temple possessed a small estate 
of about five hundred pounds a year; and 
with that he resolved to preserve inde- 
pendence, to marry where the feelings 
of his heart should direct him, and to 
confine his expenses within the limits of 
his income. He had a heart open to 
every generous feeling of humanity, and 
a hand ready to dispense to those who 
wanted, part of the blessings he enjoyed 

As he was universally known to be the 
friend of the unfortunate, his advice and 
bounty were frequently solicited; nor 
was it seldom that he sought out indigent 

Charlotte Temple. 


merit, and raised it from obscurity, con- 
fining his own expenses within a very 
narrow compass. 

" You are a very benevolent fellow," 
said a young officer to him one day; 
" and I have a great mind to give you a 
subject to exercise the goodness of your 
heart upon." 

" You cannot oblige me more," said 
Temple, " than to point out any way by 
which I can be serviceable to my fellow 

" Come along, then," said the young- 
man. " We will go and visit a man who 
is not in so good a lodging as he deserves ; 
and were it not that he has an angel with 
him, who comforts and supports him, he 
must long since have sunk under his mis- 

The young man's heart was too full 
to proceed; and Temple, unwilling to ir- 
ritate his feelings by making further 
inquiries, followed him in silence till 
they arrived at the Fleet prison. 

1-t Charlotte Temple. 

The officer inquired for Captain El- 
dridge. A person led them up several 
pairs of dirty stairs, and pointing to a 
door which led to a miserable, small 
apartment, said that was the captain's 
room, and retired. 

The officer, whose name was Blake- 
ney, tapped at the door, and was bidden 
to enter by a voice melodiously soft. He 
opened the door and discovered to Tem- 
ple a scene which riveted him to the spot 
with astonishment. 

The apartment, though small and 
bearing strong marks of poverty, was 
neat in the extreme. In an arm-chair, 
his head reclined on his hand, his eyes 
fixed on a book which lay open before 
him, sat an aged man in a lieutenant^ 
uniform, which, though threadbare, 
should sooner call a blush of shame into 
the face of those who could neglect real 
merit, than cause the hectic of confusion 
to glow on the cheeks of him who wore 

Charlotte Temple. 


Beside him sat a lovely creature, 
busied in painting a fan mount. She 
was fair as the lily; but sorrow had 
nipped the rose in her cheek before it 
was half blown. Her eyes were blue, 
and her hair, which was light brown, was 
slightly confined under a plain muslin 
cap, tied around with a black ribbon; a 
white linen gown and plain lawn hand- 
kerchief composed the remainder of her 
dress; and in this simple attire she was 
more irresistibly charming to such a 
heart as Temple's than she would have 
been if adorned with all the splendor of 
a courtly belle. 

When they entered the old man arose 
from his seat, and, shaking Blakeney by 
the hand with great cordiality, offered 
Temple his chair; and there being but 
three in the room, seated himself on the 
side of his little bed with evident com- 

" This is a strange place," S9id he to 

Charlotte Temple. 

temple, " to receive visitors of distinc- 
tion in, but we must fit our feelings to 
our station. While I am not ashamed 
to own the cause which brought me here, 
why should I blush at my situation? Our 
misfortunes are not our faults, and were 
it not for that poor girl " 

Here the philosopher was lost in the 
father. He arose hastily from his seat, 
walked toward the window, and wiped 
off a tear which he was afraid would 
tarnish the cheek of a sailor. 

Temple cast his eye on Miss El- 
dridge; a pellucid drop had stolen from 
her eye, and fallen upon a rose she was 
painting. It blotted and discolored the 
flower. " 'Tis emblematic," said he, 
mentally; " the rose of youth and health 
soon fades when watered by the tear of 

" My friend Blakeney," said he, ad- 
dressing the old man, " told me I could 
be of service to you; be so kind, then, 

Charlotte Temple. 


dear sir, as to point out some way in 
which I can relieve the anxiety of your 
heart and increase the pleasure of my 

"My good young man," said Eldridge, 
" you know not what you offer. While 
deprived of my liberty, I cannot be free 
from anxiety on my own account, but 
that is a trifling concern; my anxious 
thoughts extend to one more dear a 
thousand times than life. I am a poor, 
weak old man, and must expect in a few 
years to sink into silence and oblivion, 
but when I am gone who will protect 
that fair bud of innocence from the 
blasts of adversity, or from the cruel 
hand of insult and dishonor? " 

" Oh, my father ! " cried Miss El- 
dridge, tenderly taking his hand, " be 
not anxious on that account, for daily 
are my prayers offered to Heaven that 
our lives may terminate at the same in- 
stant, and one grave receive us both, for 


Charlotte Temple. 

why should I live when deprived of my 
only friend? " 

Temple was moved even to tears. 
" You will both live many years ! " he 
said, " and, I hope, see much happiness. 
Cheerily, my friend, cheerily ; these pass- 
ing clouds of adversity will serve only to 
make the sunshine of prosperity more 
pleasing. But we are losing time; you 
might, ere this, have told me who were 
your creditors, what were their demands, 
and other particulars necessary to your 

"My story is short," said Mr. El- 
dridge, " but there are some particulars 
which will wring my heart barely to re- 
member, yet to one whose offers of 
friendship appear so open and disinter- 
ested, I will relate every circumstance 
that led to my present painful situation. 
But, my child," continued he, addressing 
his daughter, " let me prevail on you to 
take this opportunity, while my friends 

Charlotte Temple. 


are with me, to enjoy the benefit of air 
and exercise. Go, my love; leave me 
now; to-morrow, at the usual hour, I will 
expect you." 

Miss Eldridge impressed on his cheek 
the kiss of filial affection, and obeyed. 



" My life," said Mr. Eldridge, " till 
within these few years, was marked by 
no particular circumstance deserving no- 
tice. I early embraced the life of a 
sailor, and have served my king with un- 
remitted ardor for many years. At the 
age of twenty-five I married an amiable 
woman; one son and the girl who just 
now left us were the fruits of our union. 
My boy had genius and spirit. I strained 

20 Charlotte Temple. 

my little income to give him a liberal 
education; but the rapid progress he 
made in his studies amply compensated 
for the inconvenience. At the academy 
where he received his education, he com- 
menced an acquaintance with a Mr. 
Lewis, a young man of affluent fortune; 
as they grew up, their intimacy ripened 
into friendship, and they became almost 
inseparable companions. 

" George chose the profession of a 
soldier. I had neither friends nor money 
to procure him a commission, and had 
washed him to embrace a nautical life, 
but this was repugnant to his wishes, and 
I ceased to urge him on the subject. The 
friendship existing between Lewis and 
my son was of such a nature as gave him 
free access to our family, and so specious 
was his manner that we hesitated not to 
state to him all our little difficulties in 
regard to George's future views. 

" He listened to us with attention, and 

Charlotte Temple. 


offered to advance any sum necessary for 
his first setting out. 

" I embraced the offer, and gave him 
my note for the payment of it; but he 
would not suffer me to mention any 
stipulated time, as he said I might do it 
whenever most convenient to myself. 

"About this time my dear Lucy re- 
turned from school, and I soon began to 
imagine Lewis looked at her with eyes of 
affection. I gave my child caution to 
beware of him, and to look on her moth- 
er as her friend. She was unaffectedly 
artless; and when, as I suspected, Lewis 
made professions of love, she confided in 
her parents, and assured us that her heart 
was perfectly unbiased in his favor, and 
she would cheerfully submit to our di- 

" I took an early opportunity of ques- 
tioning him concerning his intentions 
tow r ard my child; he gave an equivocal 
and suspicious answer — some angry 

Charlotte Temple. 

words followed, and I forbade him the 

" The next day he sent and demanded 
payment of his money. It was not in 
my power to comply with the demand. 
I requested three days to endeavor to 
raise it, determining to mortgage my 
half-pay, and live on a small annuity 
which my wife possessed, rather than be 
under any obligation to so worthless a 
man; but this short time was not allowed 
me, for that evening, as I was sitting- 
down to supper, unsuspicious of danger, 
an officer entered and tore me from the 
embraces of my family. 

" My wife had been for some time in 
a declining state of health; ruin at once 
so unexpected and inevitable was a 
stroke she was not prepared to bear; and 
I saw her faint in the arms of our ser- 
vant, as I left my own habitation for the 
comfortless walls of a prison. 

" My poor Lucy, distracted with her 

Charlotte Temple. 23 

fears for us both, sank on the floor and 
endeavored to retain me by her feeble ef- 
forts, but in vain; they forced her to 
open her arms; she shrieked and fell 
prostrated — but pardon me — the horrors 
of that night unman me. I cannot pro- 

He arose from his seat and walked 
several times across the room; at length, 
attaining more composure, he cried : 

" What a mere infant I am ! Why, 
sir, I never felt thus in the day of bat- 

"Xo," said Temple; "but the truly 
brave soldier is tremblingly alive to the 
feelings of humanity." 

" True," repled the old man (some- 
thing like satisfaction darting across his 
features), " and painful as these feelings 
are, I would not exchange them for that 
torpor which the stoic mistakes for phil- 
osophy. How many exquisite delights 
should I have passed by unnoticed, but 

24 Charlotte Temple. 

for these keen sensations, this quick 
sense of happiness or misery! Then let 
us, my friend, take the cup of life as it 
is presented to us, tempered by the hand 
of a wise Providence; be thankful for 
the good, be patient under the evil, and 
presume not to inquire why the latter 

" This is true philosophy," said Tem- 

" 'Tis the only way to reconcile our- 
selves to the cross events of life," replied 
he. " But I forgot myself. I will not 
longer intrude on your patience, but pro- 
ceed with my melancholy tale. 

" The very evening that I was taken 
to prison, my son arrived from Ireland, 
where he had been some time with his 
regiment. From the distracted expres- 
sions of his mother and sister, he learned 
by whom I had been arrested, and, late 
as it was, flew on the wings of wounded 
affection to the house of his false friend, 

Charlotte Temple. 25 

and earnestly inquired the cause of this 
cruel conduct. With all the calmness 
of a cool, deliberate villain, he avowed 
his passion for Lucy, declared her situa- 
tion in life would not permit him to 
marry her, but offered to release me im- 
mediately, and make any settlement 
upon her, if George would persuade her 
to live, as he impiously termed it, a life 
of honor. 

" Fired at the insult offered to a man 
and a soldier, my boy struck the villain, 
and a challenge ensued. 

" He then went to a coffee-house in 
the neighborhood, and wrote a long, af- 
fectionate letter to me, blaming himself 
severely for having introduced Lewis 
into the family, or permitting him to pay 
an obligation which had brought in- 
evitable ruin on us all. He begged me, 
whatever might be the event of the en- 
suing morning, not to suffer regret or 
unavailing sorrow for his fate to increase 


Charlotte Temple. 

the anguish of my heart, which he great- 
ly feared was already insupportable. 

" This letter was delivered to me early 
in the morning. It would "be vain to at- 
tempt to describe my feelings on the 
perusal of it ; suffice it to say, that a mer- 
ciful Providence interposed, and I was 
for three weeks insensible- to miseries al- 
most beyond the strength of human 
nature to support. 

"A fever and strong delirium seized 
me, and my life was despaired of. 

"At length nature, overpowered with 
fatigue, gave way to the salutary power 
of rest, and a quiet slumber of some 
hours restored me to reason, though the 
extreme weakness of my frame pre- 
vented my feeling my distress so acutely 
as I otherwise should. 

" The first object that struck me on 
awakening was Lucy sitting by my bed- 
side; her pale countenance and dress pre- 
vented my inquiries for poor George; for 

Charlotte Temple. 


the letter I had received from him was 
the first thing that occurred to my mem- 
ory. By degrees the rest returned; I 
recollected being arrested, but could in 
no way account for being in this apart- 
ment, whither they had conveyed me 
during my illness. 

" I was so weak as to be almost unable 
to speak; I pressed Lucy's hand, and 
looked earnestly around the apartment 
in search of another dear object. 

" ' Where is your mother ? ' said I, 

" The poor girl could not answer ! She 
shook her head in expressive silence, and 
throwing herself on the bed, folded her 
arms about me and burst into tears. 

" 1 What, both gone ? ' said I. 

" ' Both,' she replied, endeavoring to 
restrain her emotions; 'but they are 
happy, no doubt.' " 

Here Mr. Eldridge paused! the recol- 
lection of the scene was too painful to 
permit him to proceed. 



" It was some days/' continued Mr. 
Eldridge, recovering himself, " before I 
could venture to inquire the particulars 
of what had happened during my illness; 
at last I assumed courage to ask my dear 
girl how long her mother and brother 
had been dead. She told me that the 
morning after my arrest, George came 
home early to inquire after his mother's 
health, stayed with them but a few min- 
utes, seemed to be greatly agitated at 
parting, but gave them strict charge to 
keep up their spirits, and hope every- 
thing would turn out for the best. In 
about two hours, as they were sitting at 
breakfast and endeavoring to strike out 
some plan to attain my liberty, they 
heard a loud rap at the door, which Lucy, 
running to open, she met the bleeding 


Charlotte Temple. 


body of her brother, borne in by two 
men, who lifted it from a litter, on 
which they had brought him from the 
place where he had fought. 

" Her poor mother, weakened by ill- 
ness and the struggles of the preceding 
night, was not able to support this shock; 
gasping for breath, her looks wild and 
haggard, she reached the apartment 
where they had carried her dying son. 
She knelt by his bedside, and taking his 
cold hand : ' My poor boy/ said she, ' I 
will not be parted from thee; husband — 
son — both at once lost ! Father of mer- 
cies, spare me ! ' She fell into a strong 
convulsion, and expired within two 
hours. In the meantime a surgeon had 
dressed George's wounds; but they were 
in such a situation as to bar the smallest 
hopes of recovery. He never was sensi- 
ble from the time he was brought home, 
and died that evening in the arms of his 

30 Charlotte Temple. 

" Late as it was when this event took 
place, my affectionate Lucy insisted on 
coming to me. * What must he feel,' 
said she, ' at our apparent neglect, and 
how shall I inform him of the afflictions 
with which it has pleased Heaven to visit 
us V 

" She left the care of the dear depart- 
ed ones to some neighbors, who had kind- 
ly some in to comfort and assist her, and 
on entering the house where I was con- 
fined, found me in the situation I have 

" How she supported herself in these 
trying moments I know not; Heaven 
no doubt was with her; and her anxiety 
to preserve the life of one parent in some 
measure abated her affliction for the loss 
of the other. 

" My circumstances were greatly em- 
barrassed, my acquaintances few, and 
those few utterly unable to assist me. 
When my wife and son were committed 

Charlotte Temple. 31 

to their kindred earth, my creditors 
seized my house and furniture, which, 
not being sufficient to satisfy their de- 
mands, detainers were lodged against 
me. Xo friend stepped foward to my re- 
lief; from the grave of her mother, my 
beloved Lucy followed an almost dying 
father to this melancholy place. 

" Here we have been nearly a year and 
a half. My half-pay I have given up to 
satisfy my creditors, and my child sup- 
ports me by her industry; sometimes by 
fine needle-work, sometimes by painting. 
She leaves me every night, and goes to a 
lodging near the bridge; but returns in 
the morning to cheer me with her smiles, 
and bless me by her duteous affection. A 
lady once offered her an a>ylum in her 
family, but she would not leave me. 
* AVe are all the world to each other/ said 
she. i I thank God I have health and 
spirits to improve the talents nature has 
endowed me with; I trust, if I employ 


Charlotte Temple. 

them in the support of a beloved parent, 
I shall not be thought an unprofitable 
servant. "While he lives I pray for 
strength to pursue my employment ; and 
when it pleases Heaven to take one of 
us, may it give the survivor fortitude to 
bear the separation with due resignation ; 
till then I will never leave him.' " 

" But where is this inhuman persecu- 
tor ? " said Temple. 

" He has been abroad ever since," re- 
plied the old man ; " but he has left or- 
ders with his lawyer never to give up the 
note until the utmost farthing is paid." 

"And how much is the amount of 
your debts in all ? " said Temple. 

" Five hundred pounds," he replied. 

Temple started; it was more than he 

" But something must be done," said 
he ; " that sweet maid must not wear out 
her life in prison. I will see you again 
to-morrow, my friend," said he, shaking 

Charlotte Temple. 33 

Eldridge's hand. " Keep up your spir- 
its; light and shade are not more happily 
blended than are the pleasures and pains 
of life; and the horrors of the one serve 
only to increase the splendor of the 

" You never lost a wife and son," said 

" No/' replied he, " but I can feel for 
those that have." 

Eldridge pressed his hand, as they 
went toward the door, and they parted 
in silence. 

"When they got without the walls of 
the prison, Temple thanked his friend 
Blakeney for introducing him to so 
worthy a character ; and, telling him that 
he had a particular engagement in the 
city, wished him a good-evening. 

"And what is to be done for this dis- 
tressed man ? " said Temple, as he walk- 
ed up Ludgate Hill. " Would to Heaven 
I had a fortune that would enable me in- 


Charlotte Temple. 

stantly to discharge his debt; what ex- 
quisite transport, to see the expressive 
eyes of Lucy beaming at once with 
pleasure for her father's deliverance and 
gratitude for his deliverer; but is not 
my fortune affluence," continued he, 
" nay, superfluous wealth, when com- 
pared to the extreme indigence of El- 
dridge? And what have I done to de- 
serve ease and plenty, while a brave 
officer starves in prison? Three hundred 
a year is surely sufficient for all my 
wants and wishes; at any rate, Eldridge 
must be relieved." 

When the heart has will, the hands 
can soon find means to execute a good 

Temple was a young man, his feelings 
warm and impetuous; unacquainted 
with the world, his heart had not been 
rendered callous by being convinced of 
its fraud and hypocrisy. He pitied their 
sufferings, overlooked their faults, 

Charlotte Temple. 


thought every bosom as generous as his 
own, and would cheerfully have divided 
his last guinea with an unfortunate fel- 
low creature. 

~No wonder, then, that such a man 
(without waiting a moment for the in- 
terference of Madame Prudence) should 
resolve to raise money sufficient for the 
relief of Eldridge, by mortgaging part 
of his fortune. 

We will not inquire too minutely into 
the motive which might actuate him in 
this instance: suffice it to say, he im- 
mediately, put the plan into execution ; 
and in three days from the time he first 
saw the unfortunate lieutenant he had 
the superlative felicity of seeing him at 
liberty, and receiving an ample reward 
in the tearful eye and half-articulated 
thanks of the grateful Lucy. 

''And pray, young man," said his 
father to him one morning, 4 ' what are 
your designs in visiting thus constantly 
the old man and his daughter ? ' ' 

36 Charlotte Temple. 

Temple was at a loss for a reply; he 
had never asked himself the question ; he 
hesitated, and his father continued: 

a It was not till within these few days 
that I heard in what manner your ac- 
quaintance first commenced, and I can- 
not suppose anything but attachment to 
the daughter could carry you such im- 
prudent lengths for the father; it must 
certainly have been her art that drew 
you into mortgaging part of your for- 

"Art, sir ! " cried Temple, eagerly — 
" Lucy Eldridge is as free from art as 
she is from every other error; she 
is " 

" Everything that is amiable and love- 
ly," said his father, interrupting him, 
ironically. " No doubt, in your opin- 
ion, she is a pattern of excellence for all 
her sex to follow. But come, sir, pray 
tell me, what are your designs towards 
this paragon ? I hope you do not intend 

Charlotte Temple. 


to complete your folly by marrying 
her ? " 

" Were my fortune such as would sup- 
port her according to her merit, I don't 
know a woman more formed to insure 
happiness in the marriage state." 

" Then, prithee, my dear lad," said 
his father, " since your rank and fortune 
are so much beneath what your Princess 
might expect, be so kind as to turn your 
eyes to Miss Weatherby, who, having 
only an estate of three thousand a year, 
is more upon a level with you, and whose 
father yesterday solicited the mighty 
honor of your alliance. I leave you to 
consider on this offer, and pray remem- 
ber that your union with Miss Weather- 
by will put it in your power to be more 
liberally the friend of Lucy Eldridge." 

The old gentleman walked in a stately 
manner out of the room, and Temple 
stood almost petrified with astonishment, 
contempt and rage. 



Miss Weatherby was the only child 
of a wealthy man, almost idolized by her 
parents, nattered by her dependents, and 
never contradicted, even by those who 
called themselves her friends. 

I cannot give a better description 
than by the following lines: 

The lovely maid whose form and face 
Nature has deek'd with every grace, 
But in whose breast no virtues glow, 
Whose heart ne'er felt another's woe, 
Whose hand ne'er smooth'd the bed of pain, 
Or eas'd the captive's galling chain: 
But like the tulip caught the eye, 
Born just to be admir'd and die; 
When gone, no one regrets its loss, 
Or scarce remembers that it was. 

Such was Miss Weatherby; her form 
lovely as nature conld make it, but her 
mind uncultivated, her passions impetu- 
ous, and her brain almost turned with 

3 8 

Charlotte Temple. 39 

flattery, dissipation, and pleasure; and 
such was the girl whom a partial grand- 
father left independent mistress of the 
fortune before mentioned. 

She had seen Temple frequently; and. 
fancying she could never be happy with- 
out him, nor once imagining he could 
refuse a girl of her beauty and fortune, 
she prevailed on her fond father to offer 

the alliance to the Earl of D , Mr. 

Temple's father. 

The earl had received the offer court- 
eously; he thought it a great match for 
Henry; and was too fashionable a man 
to suppose a wife could be any impedi- 
ment to the friendship he professed for 
Eldridge and his daughter. 

Unfortunately for Temple,* he 
thought quite otherwise; the conversa- 
tion he had just had with his father dis- 
covered to him the situation of his heart ; 
and he found that the most affluent for- 
tune would bring no increase of happi- 

40 Charlotte Temple. 

ness unless Lucy Eldridge shared it with 
him; and the integrity of his own heart 
made him shudder at the idea his father 
had started, of marrying a woman for no 
other reason than because the affluence of 
her fortune would enable him to injure 
her by maintaining in splendor the 
woman to whom his heart was devoted; 
he therefore resolved to refuse ^liss 
Weatherby, and, be the event what it 
might, offer his heart and hand to Lucy 

Full of this determination, he sought 
his father, declared his resolution, and 
was commanded never more to appear in 
his presence. 

Temple bowed; his heart was too full 
to permit him to speak; he left the house 
precipitately, and hastened to relate the 
cause of his sorrow to his good old friend 
and his amiable daughter. 

In the meantime, the earl, vexed to 
the soul that such a fortune should be 

Charlotte Temple. 41 

lost, determined to offer himself a candi- 
date for Miss Weatherby's favor. 

What wonderful changes are wrought 
by that reigning power, ambition ! The 
love-sick girl, when first she heard of 
Temple's refusal, wept, raved, tore her 
hair, and vowed to found a Protestant 
nunnery with her fortune; and com- 
mencing abbess, to shut herself up from 
the sight of cruel, ungrateful man for- 

Her father was a man of the world; he 
suffered his first transport to subside, 
and then very deliberately unfolded to 
her the offers of the old earl, expatiating 
on the many benefits arising from an ele- 
vated title ; painted in glowing colors the 
surprise and vexation of Temple when 
he should see her figuring as a countess 
and his step-mother, and begged her to 
consider well before she made any rash 

The distressed fair one dried her tears, 


Charlotte Temple. 

listened patiently, and at length declared 
she believed the surest method to re- 
venge the slight put on her by the son. 
would be to accept the father; so said — 
so done, and in a feAv days she became 

the Countess D . 

Temple heard the news with emotion; 
he had lost his father's favor by avowing 
his passion for Lucy, and he saw now 
there was no hope of regaining it. " But 
he shall not make me miserable," said 
he. " Lucy and I have no ambitious no- 
tions; we can live on three hundred a 
year for some little time, till the mort- 
gage is paid off, and then we shall have 
sufficient not only for the comforts, but 
many of the little elegancies of life. We 
will purchase a little cottage, my Lucy," 
said he, " thither with your reverend 
father, we will retire; we will forget that 
there are such things as splendor, pro- 
fusion, and dissipation — we will have 
some cow t s, and you shall be queen of the 

Charlotte Temple. 43 

dairy; in the morning, while I look after 
my garden, you shall take a basket on 
your arm, and sally forth to feed your 
poultry; and as they flutter round you in 
humble gratitude, your father shall 
smoke his pipe in a woodbine alcove, and 
viewing the serenity of your counten- 
ance, feel such real pleasure dilate his 
heart as shall make him regret that he 
has ever been unhappy." 

Lucy smiled, and Temple saw it was 
the smile of approbation. He sought 
and found a cottage suited to his taste; 
thither, attended by love and Hymen, 
the happy trio retired, where, during 
many years of uninterrupted felicity, 
they cast not a wish beyond the little 
boundaries of their own tenement. 
Plenty, and her hand-maid, Prudence, 
presided at their board; hospitality stood 
at their gate, peace smiled on each face, 
content reigned in each heart, and love 
and health strewed roses on their pillows. 

44 Charlotte Temple. 

Such were the parents of Charlotte 
Temple, who was the only pledge of 
their mutual love, and who, at the earn- 
est entreaty of a particular friend, was 
permitted to finish the education her 
mother had begun, at Madame Du 
Pont's school, where we first introduced 
her to the acquaintance of the reader. 



Madame Du Pont was a woman in 
every way calculated to take care of 
young ladies, had that care entirely de- 
volved on herself; but it was impossible 
to attend to the education of a numerous 
school without proper assistants; and 
those assistants were not always the kind 
of people whose conversations and 

Charlotte Temple. 


morals were exactly such as parents of 
delicacy and refinement would wish a 
daughter to copy. 

Among the teachers at Madame Du 
Font's school was Mademoiselle La Rue, 
who added to a pleasing person and in- 
sinuating address a liberal education and 
the manners of a gentlewoman. She 
was recommended to the school by a lady 
whose humanity overstepped the bounds 
of discretion ; for, though she knew Miss 
La Rue had eloped from a convent with 
a young officer, and on coming to Eng- 
land had lived in open defiance of all 
moral and religious duties, yet, finding 
her reduced to the most abject want, and 
believing the penitence which she pro- 
fessed to be sincere, she took her into her 
own family, and thence recommended 
her to Madame Du Pont, as thinking the 
situation more suitable for a woman of 
her abilities. 

But mademoiselle possessed too much 

46 Charlotte Temple. 

the spirit of intrigue to remain long 
without adventures. At church, where 
she constantly appeared, her person at- 
tracted the attention of a young man 
who was upon a visit at a gentleman's 
seat in the neighborhood; she had met 
him several times clandestinely, and be- 
ing invited to come out that evening and 
eat some fruit and pastry in a summer- 
house belonging to the gentleman he was 
visiting, and requested to bring some of 
the ladies with her, Charlotte, being her 
favorite, was fixed on to accompany her. 

The mind of youth easily catches at 
promised pleasure. Pure and innocent 
by nature, it thinks not of the dangers 
lurking beneath those pleasures until too 
late to avoid them. 

When mademoiselle asked Charlotte 
to go with her, she mentioned the gen- 
tleman as a relation, and spoke in such 
high terms of the elegance of his gar- 
dens, the sprightliness of his conversa- 

Charlotte Temple. 47 

tion, and the liberality with which he 
entertained his guests, that Charlotte 
thought only of the pleasure she should 
enjoy in the visit, not of the imprudence 
of going without her governess' knowl- 
edge, or of the danger to which she ex- 
posed herself in visiting the house of a 
young man of fashion. 

Madame Du Pont had gone out for 
the evening, and the rest of the ladies 
had retired to rest, when Charlotte and 
the teacher stole out of the back gate, 
and in crossing the field, were accosted 
by Montraville, as mentioned in the first 

Charlotte was disappointed at the 
pleasure she had promised herself from 
this visit. The levity of the gentlemen 
and the freedom of their conversation 
disgusted her. She was astonished at 
the liberties mademoiselle permitted 
them to take, grew thoughtful and un- 
easy, and heartily wished herself at home 
again, in her own chamber. 

48 Charlotte Temple. 

Perhaps one cause of that wish might 
be an earnest desire to see the contents of 
the letter which had been put into her 
hand by Montraville. 

Any reader, who has the least knowl- 
edge of the world, will easily imagine the 
letter was made up of encomiums on her 
beauty, and vows of everlasting love and 
constancy, nor will he be surprised that 
a heart open to every gentle, generous 
sentiment, should feel itself warmed by 
gratitude for a man who professed to feel 
so much for her, nor is it improbable that 
her mind might revert to the agreeable 
person and martial appearance of Mon- 

In affairs of love, a young heart is 
never in more danger than when attack- 
ed by a handsome young soldier. A man 
of indifferent appearance will, when ar- 
rayed in a military habit, show to ad- 
vantage, but when beauty of person, ele- 
gance of manner, and an easy method 

Charlotte Temple. 


of paying compliments are united to the 
scarlet coat, smart cockade, and military 
sash — ah! well-a-day for the poor girl 
who gazes upon him; she is in imminent 
danger, but if she listens to him with 
pleasure, 'tis all over with her, and from 
that moment she has neither eyes nor 
ears for any other object. 

Xow, my dear, sober matron — if a 
sober matron should deign to turn over 
these pages before she trusts them to the 
eyes of a darling daughter — let me en- 
treat you not to put on a grave face and 
throw down the book in a passion, and de- 
clare 'tis enough to turn the heads of half 
the girls in England. I do solemnly pro- 
test, my dear madam, I mean no more 
by what I have here advanced than to 
ridicule those girls who foolishly im- 
agine a red coat and a silver eqaulet con- 
stitute a fine gentleman; and should that 
fine gentleman make half a dozen fine 
speeches to them they will imagine 


Charlotte Temple. 

themselves so much in love as to fancy 
it a meritorious act to jump out of a 
two-pair stairs window, abandon their 
friends, and trust entirely to the honor 
of a man who, perhaps, hardly knows 
the meaning of the word, and if he does, 
will be too much the modern man of re- 
finement to practise it in their favor. 

Gracious Heaven ! when I think of the 
miseries that must rend the heart of a 
doting parent, when he sees the darling 
of his age at first seduced from his protec- 
tion, and afterwards abandoned by the 
very wretch whose promises of love de- 
coyed her from the paternal roof — when 
he sees her poor and wretched, her bosom 
torn between remorse for her crime and 
love for her foul betrayer — when fancy 
paints to me the good old man stooping 
to raise the weeping penitent, while 
every tear from her eye is numbered by 
drops from his bleeding heart, my bosom 
glows with honest indignation, and T 

Charlotte Temple. 


wish for power to extirpate these mon- 
sters of seduction from the earth. 

Oh, my dear girls — for to such only 
am I writing — listen not to the voice of 
love, unless sanctioned by paternal ap- 
probation; be assured, it is now past the 
days of romance; no woman can be run 
away with contrary to her own inclina- 
tion ; then kneel down each morning and 
request kind Heaven to keep you free 
from temptation; or should it please to 
suffer you to be tried, pray for fortitude 
to resist the impulse of natural inclina- 
tion, when it runs counter to the precepts 
of religion and virtue. 



" I cannot think we have done exact- 
ly right in going ont this evening, 
mademoiselle," said Charlotte, seating 
herself, when she entered her apart- 
ment; u nay, I am sure it was not right; 
for I expected to be very happy, but was 
sadly disappointed." 

" It was your own fault, then," replied 
mademoiselle ; " for I am sure my cousin 
omitted nothing that could serve to ren- 
der the evening agreeable." 

"True," said Charlotte, "but I 
thought the gentlemen were very free in 
their manner; I wonder you would suf- 
fer them to behave as they did." 

" Prithee, don't be such a foolish little 
prude," said the artful woman, affecting 
anger. " I invited you to go, in hope* it 


Charlotte Temple. 53 

would divert you, and be an agreeable 
change of scene; however, if your del- 
icacy was hurt by the behavior of the 
gentlemen, you need not go again; so 
there let it rest." 

" I do not intend to go again," said 
Charlotte, gravely, taking off her bon- 
net, and beginning to prepare for bed. 
" I am sure, if Madame Du Pont knew 
we had been out to-night, she would be 
very angry; and it is ten to one but she 
hears of it by some means or other." 

" Nay, miss," said La Rue, " perhaps 
your mighty sense of propriety may lead 
you to tell her yourself, and in order to 
avoid the censure you would incur 
should she hear of it by accident, throw 
the blame on me ; but I confess I deserve 
it ; it will be a very kind return for that 
partiality which led me to prefer you be- 
fore any of the rest of the ladies, but 
perhaps it will give you pleasure," con- 
tinued she, letting fall some hypocritical 

54 Charlotte Temple. 

tears, " to see me deprived of bread, and 
for an action which by the most rigid 
could be esteemed but an inadvertency, 
lose my place and character, and be 
driven again into the world, where I 
have already suffered all the evils attend- 
ant on poverty." 

This was touching Charlotte in the 
most vulnerable part; she arose from her 
seat, and taking mademoiselle's hand — 
" You know, my dear La Kue," said she, 
" I love you too well to do anything that 
would injure you in my governess' opin- 
ion; I am only sorry we went out this 

"I don't believe it, Charlotte," said 
she, assuming a little vivacity, " for, if 
you had not gone out, you would not 
have seen the gentleman who met us 
crossing the field, and I rather think you 
were pleased with his conversation." 

" I had seen him once before," replied 
Charlotte, " and thought him an agree- 

Charlotte Temple. 55 

able man, and you know one is always 
pleased to see a person with whom one 
has passed several cheerful hours. But," 
said she, pausing and drawing the letter 
from her pocket, while a general suffu- 
sion of vermilion tinged her neck and 
face, " he gave me this letter; what shall 
I do with it \ " 

" Read it, to be sure," returned made- 

" I am afraid I ought not," said Char- 
lotte. " My mother has often told me 
I should never read a letter given me by 
a young man without first giving it to 

" Lord bless you, my dear girl ! " 
cried the teacher, smiling, " have you a 
mind to be in leading strings all your 
lifetime? Prithee, open the letter, read 
it, and judge for yourself. If you show 
it to your mother, the consequence will 
be, you will be taken from school, and a 
strict guard kept over you, so you w T ill 

56 Charlotte Temple. 

stand no chance of ever seeing the smart 
young officer again." 

" I should not like to leave school 
yet/' replied Charlotte, " till I have at- 
tained a greater proficiency in my Ital- 
ian and music. But you can, if you 
please, mademoiselle, take the letter 
back to Montraville, and tell him I wish 
him well, but cannot, with any pro- 
priety, enter into a clandestine corres- 
pondence with him." 

She laid the letter on the table, and 
began to undress herself. 

" Well," said La Kue, a I vow you are 
an unaccountable girl. Have you no 
curiosity to see the inside now? For 
my part, I could no more let a letter ad- 
dressed to me lie unopened so long than 
I could work miracles; he writes a good 
hand," continued she, turning the letter 
to look at the superscription. 

" 'Tis well enough," said C harlotte, 
drawing it towards her. 

Charlotte Temple. 


" He is a genteel young fellow," said 
La Rue, carelessly, folding up her apron 
at the same time; "but I think he is 
marked with the smallpox." 

" Oh, you are greatly mistaken," said 
Charlotte, eagerly; "he has a remark- 
ably clear skin and a fine complexion. 

" His eyes, if I should judge by what 
I saw," said La Rue, " are gray, and 
want expression." 

"By no means," replied Charlotte; 
" they are the most expressive eyes I ever 

" Well, child, whether they are gray 
or black is of no consequence; you have 
determined not to read his letter, so it is 
likely you will never either see or hear 
from him again." 

Charlotte took up the letter, and 
mademoiselle continued : 

" He is most probably going to Amer- 
ica; and if ever you should hear any ac- 
count of him it may possibly be that he 

58 Charlotte Temple. 

is killed; and though he loved you ever 
so fervently, though his last breath 
should be spent in a prayer for your hap- 
piness, it can be nothing to you; you can 
feel nothing for the fate of the man 
whose letter you will not open, and 
whose sufferings you will not alleviate, 
by permitting him to think you would 
remember him when absent and pray for 
his safety." 

Charlotte still held the letter in her 
hand; her heart swelled at the conclu- 
sion of mademoiselle's speech, and a tear 
dropped on the wafer that closed it. 

" The wafer is not dry yet," said she, 
" and sure there can be no great 

harm " She hesitated. La Eue 

was silent. " I may read it, made- 
moiselle, and return it afterwards." 

" Certainly," replied mademoiselle. 

"At any rate, I am determined not to 
answer it," continued Charlotte, as she 
opened the letter. 

Charlotte Temple. 59 

Here let me stop to make one remark, 
and trust me, my very heart aches while 
I write it; but certain I am that when 
once a woman has stifled the sense of 
shame in her own bosom — when once 
she has lost sight of the basis on which 
reputation, honor, everything that 
. should be dear to the female heart, rests 
— she grows hardened in guilt, and will 
spare no pains to bring down innocence 
and beauty to the shocking level with 
herself; and this proceeds from that dia- 
bolical spirit of envy which repines at 
seeing another in full possession of that 
respect and esteem which she can no 
longer hope to enjoy. 

Mademoiselle eyed the unsuspecting 
Charlotte, as she perused the letter, with 
malignant pleasure. She saw that the 
contents had awakened new emotions in 
her youthful bosom.' 

She encouraged her hopes, calmed her 
fears, and before they parted for the 

00 Charlotte Temple. 

night, it was determined that she should 
meet Montraville on the ensuing even- 



" I think, my dear/' said Mrs. Term 
pie, laying her hand on her husband's 
arm, as they were walking together in 
the garden, " I think next Wednesday 
will be Charlotte's birthday. Xow, I 
have formed a little scheme in my own 
mind to give her an agreeable surprise, 
and if you have no objection, we will 
send for her to come home on that day." 

Temple pressed his wife's hand in 
token of approbation, and she proceeded : 

" You know the little alcove in the 
bottom of the garden, of which Char- 

Charlotte Temple. 61 

lotte is so fond? I have an inclination 
to deck it out in a fanciful manner, and 
invite all her little friends to partake of 
a collation of fruit, sweetmeats, and 
other things suitable to the general taste 
of young guests, and to make it more 
pleasing to Charlotte, she shall be mis- 
tress of the feast, and entertain her visit- 
ors in this alcove. I know she will be 
delighted, and, to complete all, they 
shall have some music, and finish with a 

" A very fine plan, indeed," said Tem- 
ple, smiling, " and you really suppose I 
will wink at your indulging the girl in 
this manner? You will spoil her, Lucy; 
indeed you will." 

" She is the only child we have," said 
Mrs. Temple, the whole tenderness of a 
mother adding animation to her fine 
countenance, but it was w T ithal tempered 
so sweetly with the meek affection and 
kind compliance of the wife, that as she 


Charlotte Temple. 

paused, expecting her husband's answer, 
he gazed at her tenderly, and found he 
was unable to refuse her request. 

" She is a good girl," said Temple. 

" She is, indeed," replied the fond 
mother, exultingly, " a grateful, affec- 
tionate girl; and I am sure will never 
lose sight of the duty she owes her 

" If she does," said he, " she must for- 
get the example set her by the best of 

Mrs. Temple could not reply; but the 
delightful sensation that dilated her 
heart sparkled in her intelligent eye and 
heightened the vermillion on her cheeks. 

Of all the pleasures of which the hu- 
man mind is sensible, there is none equal 
to that which warms and expands the 
bosom when w T e are listening to com- 
mendation bestowed on us by a beloved 
object, and we are conscious of having 
deserved it. 

( Jharlotte Temple. 


Ye giddy flutterers in the fantastic 
round of dissipation, who eagerly seek 
pleasure in the lofty dome, rich »treat, 
and midnight revel — tell me, thought- 
less daughters of folly, have you ever 
found the phantom you have so long 
sought with unremitting assiduity? 

Has she not always eluded your grasp, 
and when you have reached your hand 
to take the cup she extends to the de- 
luded votaries, have you not found the 
long-expected draught strongly tinc- 
tured with the bitter dregs of disappoint- 
ment ? I know you have. I see it in the 
wan cheek, sunken eye, and air of cha- 
grin, which ever mark the children of 
dissipation. Pleasure is a vain illusion; 
she draws you on to a thousand follies, 
errors, and, I may say, vices, and then 
leaves you to deplore your thoughtless 

Look, my dear friends, at yonder 
lovely virgin, arrayed in a white robe, 

64 Charlotte Temple. 

devoid of ornament; behold the meekness 
of her countenance, the modesty of her 
gait; her handmaids are humility, filial 
piety, conjugal affection, industry and 
benevolence; her name is Content; she 
holds in her hand the cup of true felic- 
ity, and when once you have formed an 
intimate acquaintance with these her at- 
tendants — nay, you must admit them as 
your bosom friends and chief counsellors 
■ — then, whatever may be your situation 
in life, the meek-eyed virgin will imme- 
diately take up her abode with you. 

Is poverty your portion? she will 
lighten your labors, preside at your fru- 
gal board, and watch your quiet slum- 

Is your state mediocrity? she will 
heighten every blessing you enjoy, by in- 
forming you how grateful you should be 
to that bountiful Providence, who might 
have placed you in the most abject situ- 
ation, and by teaching you to weigh your 

Charlotte Temple. 


blessings against your deserts, show you 
how much more you receive than you 
have a right to expect. 

Are you possessed of affluence — what 
an inexhaustible fund of happiness she 
will lay before you! To relieve the dis- 
tress, redress the injured — in short to 
perform all the good works of peace and 

Content, my dear friends, will blunt 
even the arrows of an adversary, so that 
they cannot materially harm you. 

She will dwell in the humblest cot- 
tage; she will attend you even to a pris- 
on; her parent is Religion; her sisters, 
Patience and Hope. 

She will pass with you through life, 
smoothing the rough paths, and tread- 
ing to earth those thorns which every 
one must meet with as they journey on- 
ward to the appointed goal. 

She will soften the pains of sickness, 
continue with you even in the coM, 


Charlotte Temple. 

gloomy hour of death, and cheering yon 
with the smiles of her heaven-born sis- 
ter, Hope, will lead you triumphantly 
to a blissful eternity. 

I confess I have rambled strangely 
from my story, but what of that? If I 
have been so lucky as to find the road to 
happiness, why should I be such a nig- 
gard as to omit so good an opportunity 
of pointing out the way to others? 

The very basis of true peace of mind 
is a benevolent wish to see all the world 
as happy as one's self ; and from my soul 
do I pity the selfish churl, who, remem- 
bering the little bickering of anger, 
envy, and fifty other disagreeables to 
which frail mortality is subject, would 
wish to avenge the affront which pride 
whispers him he has received. 

For my own part, I can safely declare, 
there is not a human being in the uni- 
verse whose prosperity I should not re- 
joice in, and to whose happiness I would 

Charlotte Temple. 07 

not contribute to the utmost limit of my 
power. And may my offenses be no 
more remembered in the day of general 
retribution, than as from my soul I for- 
give every offense or injury received 
from a fellow-creature. 

Merciful Heaven ! who would ex- 
change the rapture of such a reflection 
for all the gaudy tinsel which the world 
calls pleasure! 

But to return. Content dwelt in Mrs. 
Temple's bosom, and spread a charming 
animation over her countenance, as her 
husband led her in, to lay the plan she 
had formed (for the celebration of Char- 
lotte's birthday) before Mr. Eldridge. 



Various were the sensations which 
agitated the mind of Charlotte during 
the day preceding the evening in which 
she was to meet Montraville. 

Several times did she almost resolve 
to go to her governess, show her his let- 
ter, and be guided by her advice; but 
Charlotte had taken one step in the ways 
of imprudence, and when that is once 
done, there are always innumerable ob- 
stacles to prevent the erring person re- 
turning to the path of rectitude; yet 
these obstacles, however forcible they 
may appear in general, exist only in the 

Charlotte feared the anger of her gov- 
erness; she loved her mother, and the 
• el ' 

Charlotte Temple. 


very idea of incurring her displeasure 
gave the greatest uneasiness; but there 
was a more forcible reason still remain- 
ing. Should she show the letter to Mad- 
ame Du Pont, she must confess the 
means by which it came into her pos- 
session; and what would be the conse- 
quence? Mademoiselle would be turned 

" I must not be ungrateful," said she. 
" La Rue is very kind to me ; besides, I 
can, when I see Montraville, inform him 
of the impropriety of our continuing to 
see or correspond with each other, and 
request him to come no more to Chi- 

However prudent Charlotte might be 
in these resolutions, she certainly did 
not take a proper method to confirm her- 
self in them. Several times in the 
course of the day, she indulged herself 
in reading over the letter, and each time 
she read it the contents sank deeper in 

70 Charlotte Temple. 

her heart. As evening drew near, she 
caught herself frequently consulting her 

" I wish this foolish meeting was 
over," said she, by way of apology to her 
own heart. "I wish it was over; for 
when I have seen him and convinced 
him that my resolution is not to be 
shaken, I shall feel my mind much 

The appointed 'hour arrived. Char- 
lotte and mademoiselle eluded the eye 
of vigilance; and Montraville, who had 
waited their coming with impatience, re- 
ceived them with rapturous and un- 
bounded acknowledgment for their con- 
descension. He had wisely brought Bel- 
cour with him to entertain mademois- 
elle, while he enjoyed an uninterrupted 
conversation with Charlotte. 

Belcour was a man whose character 
might be comprised in a few words; and 
as he will make some figure in the ensu- 

Charlotte Temple. 


ing pages, I shall here describe him. He 
possessed a genteel fortune, and had had 
a liberal education; dissipated, thought- 
less and capricious, he paid little regard 
to the moral duties, and less to religious 
ones; eager in the pursuit of pleasure, 
he minded not the miseries he inflicted 
on others, provided his own wishes, how- 
ever extravagant, were gratified. Self, 
daring self, was the idol he worshiped, 
and to that he would have sacrificed the 
interest and happiness of all mankind. 
Such was the friend of Montraville. 
Will not the reader be ready to imagine, 
that the man who could regard such, a 
character must be actuated by the same 
feelings, follow the same pursuits, and 
be equally unworthy with the person to 
whom he thus gave his confidence? 

But Montraville was a different char- 
acter; generous in his disposition, lib- 
eral in his opinion, and good-natured al- 
most to a fault, yet eager and impetuous 

Charlotte Temple. 

in the pursuit of a favorite object, he 
stayed not to reflect on the consequences 
which might follow the attainment of 
his wishes; with a mind ever open to 
conviction, had he been so fortunate as 
to possess a friend who would have 
pointed out the cruelty of endeavoring 
to gain the heart of an innocent, artless 
girl, when he knew it was utterly impos- 
sible for him to marry her, and when 
the gratification of his passion would be 
unavoidable infamy and misery to her, 
and a . cause of never-ceasing remorse to 
himself. Had these dreadful conse- 
quences been placed before him in a 
proper light, the humanity of his nature 
would have urged him to give up the 
pursuit. But Belcour was not his 
friend; he rather encouraged the grow- 
ing passion of Montraville, and being 
pleased with the vivacity of mademois- 
elle, resolved to leave no argument un- 
tried which he thought might prevail 

Charlotte Temple. 73 

on her to be the companion of their in- 
tended voyage, and he had no doubt but 
their example, added to the rhetoric of 
Montraville, would persuade Charlotte 
to go with them. 

Charlotte had, when she went out to 
meet Montraville, flattered herself that 
her resolution was not to be shaken, 
and that, conscious of the impropriety 
of her conduct in having a clandestine 
intercourse with a stranger, she would 
never repeat the indiscretion. 

But alas, poor Charlotte! she knew not 
the deceitfulness of her own heart, or 
she would have avoided the trial of her 

Montraville was tender, eloquent, ar- 
dent, and yet respectful. 

" Shall I not see you once more," said 
he, " before I leave England? Willyou 
not bless me by an assurance that, when 
we are divided by a vast expanse of sea, 
I shall not be forgotten ? " 

74 Charlotte Temple. 

Charlotte sighed. 

" Why that sigh, my dear Charlotte ? 
Could I flatter myself that a fear for my 
safety, or a wish for my welfare occa- 
sioned it, how happy it would make 

u I shall ever wish you well, Montra- 
ville," said she, ' k but we must meet no 

" Oh, say not so, my lovely girl ! Re- 
flect that when I leave my native land, 
perhaps a few short weeks may termi- 
nate my existence ; the perils of the 
ocean — the dangers of war " 

" I can hear no more," said Charlotte, 
in a tremulous voice. " I must leave 

" Say you will see me once again." 

" I dare not," said she. 

ft Only for one half hour to-morrow 
evening; 'tis my last request. I shall 
never trouble you again, Charlotte." 

"I know not what to say," cried Char- 

Charlotte Temple. 


lotte," struggling to draw lier hand from 
him ; " let me leave you now." 

"And will you come to-morrow?" 
said Montraville. 

" Perhaps I may," said she. 

" Adieu, then. I will live upon that 
hope until we meet again." 

He kissed her hand. 

She sighed an adieu, and catching 
hold of mademoiselle's arm, hastily en- 
tered the garden gate. 



Moxtraville was the youngest son 
of a gentleman of fortune, whose family 
being numerous, he was obliged to bring 
up his sons to genteel professions, by 


Charlotte Temple. 

the exercise of which they might hope 
to raise themselves into notice. 

" My daughters," said he, " have been 
educated like gentlewomen; and should 
I die before they are settled, they must 
have some provision made to place them 
above the snares and temptations which 
vice ever holds out to the elegant, ac- 
complished female, wdien oppressed by 
the frowns of poverty and the sting of 
dependence; my boys, with only moder- 
ate incomes, when placed in the church, 
at the bar, or in the field, may exert 
their talents, make themselves friends, 
and raise their fortunes on the basis of 

When Montraville chose the profes- 
sion of arms, his father presented him 
with a commission, and made him a 
handsome provision for his private 

" Xow, my boy," said he; "go! seek 
glory on the field of battle. You have 

Charlotte Temple. 


received from me all I shall ever have 
it in my power to bestow; it is certain I 
have interest to gain your promotion; 
but be assured that that interest shall 
never be exerted unless by your future 
conduct you deserve it. Remember, 
therefore, your success in life depends 
entirely upon yourself. 

" There is one thing I consider it my 
duty to caution you against; the precip- 
itancy with which young men frequent- 
ly rush into matrimonial engagements, 
and by their thoughtlessness draw many 
a deserving woman into scenes of pov- 
erty and distress. 

"A soldier has no business to think 
of a wife until his rank is such as to 
place him above the fear of bringing 
into the world a train of helpless inno- 
cents, heirs only to penury and affliction. 

" If, indeed, a woman, whose fortune 
is sufficient to preserve you in that state 
of independence which I would teach 


Charlotte Temple. 

yon to prize, should generously bestow 
herself on a young soldier, whose chief 
hope of future prosperity depended on 
his successes in the field — if such a 
woman should offer — every barrier is 
removed, and I shall rejoice in a union 
which would promise so much felicity. 

" But mark me, boy, if, on the con- 
trary, you rush into a precipitate union 
with a girl of little or no fortune, take 
the poor creature from a comfortable 
home and kind friends, and plunge her 
into all the evils that a narrow income 
and increasing family can inflict, I will 
leave you to enjoy the blessed fruits of 
your rashness, for, by all that is sacred, 
neither my interest nor my fortune shall 
ever be exerted in your favor. 

" I am serious," continued he, " there- 
fore imprint. this conversation on your 
memory, and let it influence your fu- 
ture conduct. Your happiness will al- 
ways be dear to me; and I wish to warn 

Charlotte Temple. 79 

you of a rock on which the peace of 
many an honest fellow has been 
wrecked; for, believe me, the difficulties 
and dangers of the longest winter cam- 
paign are much easier to be borne than 
the pangs that would seize your heart, 
when you beheld the woman of your 
choice, the children of your affection, 
involved in penury and distress, and re- 
flected that it was your own folly and 
precipitancy that had been the prime 
cause of their suffering." 

As this conversation passed but a 
few hours before Montraville took leave 
of his father, it was deeply impressed 
on his mind; when, therefore, Belcour 
came with him to the place of assigna- 
tion with Charlotte, he directed him to 
inquire of the Frenchwoman what were 
Miss Temple's expectations in regard to 

Mademoiselle informed him, that 
though Charlotte's father possessed a 

80 Charlotte Temple. 

genteel independence, it was by no 
means probable that he conld give his 
daughter more than a thousand pounds; 
and in case she did not marry to his lik- 
ing, it was possible he might not give 
her a single sou; nor did it appear the 
least likely that Mr. Temple would agree 
to her union with a young man on the 
point of embarking for the seat of war. 

Montraville, therefore, concluded it 
was impossible he should ever marry 
Charlotte Temple : and what end he pro- 
posed to himself by continuing the ac- 
quaintance he had commenced with her, 
he did not at that moment give himself 
time to inquire. 



Almost a week was now gone, and 
Charlotte continued every evening to 
meet Montraville, and in her heart 
every meeting was resolved to be the 
last ; but alas ! when Montraville, at 
parting, would earnestly entreat one 
more interview that treacherous heart 
betrayed her, and forgetful of its reso- 
lution, pleaded the cause of the enemy 
so powerfully, that Charlotte was un- 
able to resist. Another and another 
meeting succeeded; and so well did 
Montraville improve each opportunity, 
that the heedless girl at length confessed 
no idea could be so painful to her as that 
of never seeing him again. 

" Then we will never be parted," said 



Charlotte Temple. 

" Ah, Montraville ! " replied Char- 
lotte, forcing a smile, " how can it be 
avoided? My parents would never con- 
sent to our union; and even could they 
be brought to approve of it, how could I 
bear to be separated from my kind, my 
beloved mother? " 

" Then you love your parents more 
than you do me, Charlotte? " 

" I hope I do," said she, blushing and 
looking down ; " I hope my affection for 
them will ever keep me from infringing 
the laws of filial duty." 

" Well, Charlotte," said Montraville, 
gravely, and letting go her hand, " since 
that is the case, I find I have deceived 
myself with fallacious hopes. I had 
flattered my fond heart that I was dearer 
to Charlotte than anything in the world 
besides. I thought that you would for 
my sake have braved fhe danger of the 
ocean — that you would, by your affec- 
tion and smiles, have softened the hard- 

Charlotte Temple. 


ships of war; and had it been my fate to 
fall, that your tenderness would cheer 
the hour of death, and smooth my pass- 
age to another world. But farewell, 
Charlotte ! I see you never loved me. I 
shall now welcome the friendly ball that 
deprives me of the sense of my misery." 

" Oh, stay, unkind Montraville," cried 
she, catching hold of his arm, as he pre- 
tended to leave her — stay; and to calm 
your fears, I will here protest, that were 
it not for the fear of giving pain to the 
best of parents, and returning their 
kindness with ingratitude, I would fol- 
low you through every danger, and in 
studying to promote your happiness, in- 
sure my own. But I cannot break my 
mother's heart, Montraville; I must not 
bring the gray hairs of my doting grand- 
father with sorrow to the grave, or make 
my beloved father perhaps curse the 
hour that gave me birth/' 

She covered her face with her hands 
and burst into tears. 

84 Charlotte Temple. 

" All these distressing scenes, my dear 
Charlotte/' cried Montraville, " are 
merely the chimeras of a disturbed 
fancy. Your parents might perhaps 
grieve at first, but when they heard 
from your own hands that you were 
with a man of honor, and that it was to 
insure your felicity by a union with 
him, that you left their protection, they 
will, be assured, forgive an error which 
love alone occasioned, and when we re- 
turn from America, receive you with 
open arms and tears of joy." 

Belcour and mademoiselle heard this 
last speech, and conceiving it a proper 
time to throw in their advice and per- 
suasions, approached Charlotte, and so 
well seconded the entreaties of Montra- 
ville, that finding that mademoiselle in- 
tended going with Belcour, and feeling 
that her own treacherous heart too much 
inclined to accompany them, the hap- 
less Charlotte consented in an evil hour 

Charlotte Temple. 85 

that the next evening they would bring 
a chaise to the end of the town, and 
that she would leave her friends, and 
throw herself entirely on the protection 
of Montraville. 

" But should you," said she, looking 
earnestly at him, her eyes full of tears, 
" should you, forgetful of your prom- 
ises, and repenting the engagements you 
here voluntarily enter into, forsake and 
leave me on a foreign shore " 

" Judge not so meanly of me," said 
he. " The moment we reach our place 
of destination, Hymen shall sanction our 
love, and when I forget your goodness 
may Heaven forget me! " 

" Ah," said Charlotte, leaning on 
mademoiselle's arm, as they walked up 
the garden together, " I have forgotten 
all that I ought to have remembered, in 
consenting to this intended elopement." 

" You are a strange girl," said mad- 
emoiselle; "you never know your own 

86 Charlotte Temple. 

mind two minutes at a time. Just now 
you declared Montraville's happiness 
was what you prized most in the world; 
and now I suppose you repent having 
insured that happiness by agreeing to 
accompany him abroad." 

" Indeed, I do repent/' replied Char- 
lotte, " from my soul ; but while discre- 
tion points out the impropriety of my 
conduct, inclination urges me on to 

"Ruin! fiddlesticks! " said mademois- 
elle. " Am not I going with you, and 
do I feel any of these qualms? 99 

" You do not renounce a tender father 
and mother," said Charlotte. 

" But I hazard my reputation," re- 
plied mademoislle, bridling. 

" True," replied Charlotte, " but you 
do not feel what I do." She then bade 
her good-night, but sleep was a stranger 
to her eyes, and the tear of anguish wa- 
tered her pillow. 


Nature's last, best gift, 
Creature in whom excelPd whatever could 
To sight or thought be named 
Holy, divine! good, amiable and sweet, 
How art thou fall'n! 

When Charlotte left her restless bed, 
her languid eyes and pale cheek discov- 
ered to Madame Du Pont the little re- 
pose she had tasted. 

" My dear child/' said the affection- 
ate governess, " what is the cause of the 
langor so apparent in your frame? Are 
you not well ? " 

" Yes, dear madame, very well," re- 
plied Charlotte, attempting to smile, 
" but I know not how it was, I could not 
sleep last night, and my spirits are de- 
pressed this morning." 

" Come, cheer up, my love," said the 
governess ; " I believe I have brought a 
cordial to revive them. I have just re- 


88 Charlotte Temple. 

ceived a letter from your good mamma, 
and here is one for yourself." 

Charlotte hastily took the letter; it 
contained these words: 

"As to-morrow is the anniversary of 
the happy day that gave my beloved girl 
to the anxious wishes of a maternal 
heart, I have requested your governess 
to let you come home and spend it with 
us, and as I know you to be a good, af- 
fectionate child, and make it your study 
to improve in those branches of educa- 
tion which you know will give most 
pleasure to your delighted parents, as a 
reward for your diligence and attention, 
I have prepared an agreeable surprise 
for your reception. Your grandfather, 
eager to embrace the darling of his aged 
heart, will come in the chaise for you; 
so hold yourself in readiness to attend 
him by nine o'clock. Your dear father 
joins in every tender wish for your 
health and future felicity which warms 

Charlotte Temple. 


the heart of my dear Charlotte's affec- 
tionate mother. 

L. Temple." 

" Gracious Heaven! " cried Charlotte, 
forgetting where she was, and raising 
her streaming eyes as if in earnest sup- 

Madame Du Pont was surprised. 

" Why these tears, my love ? " said 
she. " Why this seeming agitation ? I 
thought the letter would have rejoiced, 
instead of distressing you." 

" It does rejoice me," replied Char- . 
lotte, endeavoring at composure ; " but I 
was praying for merit to deserve the un- 
remitted attentions of the best of par- 

" You are right," said Madame Du 
Pont, " to ask the assistance of Heaven 
that you may continue to deserve their 
love. Continue, my dear Charlotte, in 
the course you have ever pursued, and 

90 Charlotte Temple. 

you will insure at once their happiness 
and your own." 

" Oh ! " cried Charlotte, as her gov- 
erness left her, " I have forfeited both 
forever. Yet let me reflect; the irre- 
vocable step is not yet taken ; it is not yet 
too late to recede from the brink of a 
precipice from which I can only behold 
the dark abyss of ruin, shame and re- 

She arose from her seat, and flew to 
the apartment of La Rue. 

" Oh, mademoiselle," said she, " I am 
snatched by a miracle from destruction! 
This letter has saved me; it has opened 
my eyes to the folly I was so near com- 
mitting. I will not go, mademoselle; I 
will not wound the hearts of those dear 
parents who make my happiness the 
whole study of their lives." 

" Well," said mademoiselle, " do as 
you please, miss, but pray understand 
that my resolution is taken, and it is not 

Charlotte Temple. 


in your power to alter it. I shall meet 
the gentlemen at the appointed hour, 
and shall not be surprised at any out- 
rage which Montraville may commit 
when he finds himself disappointed. In- 
deed, I should not be astonished were he 
to come immediately here and reproach 
you for your instability in the hearing 
of the whole school; and what will be the 
consequence? You will bear the odium 
of having formed the resolution of elop- 
ing, and every girl of spirit will laugh 
at your want of fortitude to put it into 
execution, while prudes and fools will 
load you with reproach and contempt. 
You will have lost the confidence of your 
parents, incurred their anger and the 
scoffs of the world; and what fruit do 
you expect to reap from this piece of 
heroism, for such, no doubt, you think 
it is? You will have the pleasure to re- 
flect that you have deceived the man 
who adores you, and whom, in your 


Charlotte Temple. 

heart, you prefer to all other men, and 
that you are separated from him for- 

This eloquent harangue was given 
with such volubility that Charlotte did 
not find an opportunity to interrupt her 
or to offer a single word until the whole 
was finished, and then found her ideas 
so confused that she knew not what to 

At length she determined that she 
would go with mademoiselle to the place 
of assignation, convince Montraville of 
the necessity of adhering to the resolu- 
tion of remaining behind, assure him of 
her affection, and bid him adieu. 

Charlotte formed this plan in her 
head, and exulted at the certainty of its 

" How shall I rejoice," said she, " in 
this triumph of reason over inclination; 
and when in the arms of my affectionate 
parents, I lift up my soul in gratitude 

Charlotte Temple. 93 

to Heaven as I look back on the dangers 
I have escaped ! " 

The hour of assignation arrived; 
mademoiselle put what money and val- 
uables she possessed in her pocket, and 
advised Charlotte to do the same, but she 
refused. " My resolution is fixed," 
said she; "I will sacrifice love to duty." 

Mademoiselle smiled internally; and 
they proceeded softly down the back 
stairs and out of the garden gate. Mon- 
traville and Belcour were ready to re- 
ceive them. 

" Now," said Montraville, taking 
Charlotte in his arms, " you are mine 

" No," said she, withdrawing from his 
embrace ; "I am come to take an ever- 
lasting farewell." 

It would be useless to repeat the con- 
versation that here ensued; suffice it to 
say, that Montraville used every argu- 
ment that had formerly been successful, 

94 Charlotte Temple. 

Charlotte's resolution began to waver, 
and he drew her almost imperceptibly 
toward the chaise. 

" I cannot go/' said she, " cease, dear 
Montraville, to persuade. I must not — 
religion, duty, forbid." 

" Cruel Charlotte ! " said he, " if you 
disappoint my ardent hopes, by all that is 
sacred! this hand shall put a period to 
my existence. I cannot — will not — 
live without you." 

"Alas! my torn heart," said Char- 
lotte, " how shall I act ? " 

" Let me direct you," said Montra- 
ville, lifting her into the chaise. 

" Oh, my dear, forsaken parents ! " 
cried Charlotte. 

The chaise drove off. She shrieked 
and fainted in the arms of her betrayer. 



" What pleasure ! " cried Mr. El- 
dridge, as he stepped into the chaise to 
go for his granddaughter, " what pleas- 
ure expands the heart of an old man 
when he beholds the progeny of a be- 
loved child growing up in every virtue 
that adorned the minds of her parents. 
I foolishly thought, some few years 
since, that every sense of joy was buried 
in the grave of my dear partner and my 
son, but my Lucy, by her filial affection, 
soothed my soul to peace, and this dear 
Charlotte has entwined herself around 
my heart, and opened such new scenes 
of delight to my view that I almost for- 
get that I have ever been unhappy." 

When the chaise stopped he alighted 
with the alacrity of youth, so much do 


96 Charlotte Temple. 

the emotions of the soul influence the 

It was half-past eight o'clock; the la- 
dies were assembled in the school-room, 
and Madame Du Pont was preparing to 
offer the morning sacrifice of prayer and 
praise, when it was discovered that made- 
moiselle and Charlotte were missing. 

" She is busy, no doubt," said the gov- 
erness, " in preparing Charlotte for her 
little excursion; but pleasure should 
never make us forget our duty to our 
Creator Go, one of you, and bid them 
both attend prayers." 

The lady who went to summon them 
soon returned, and informed the gover- 
ness that the room was locked, and that 
she had knocked repeatedly, but received 
no answer. 

" Good Heaven ! " cried Madame Du 
Pont, " this is very strange ; " and turn- 
ing pale with terror, she went hastily to 
the door, and ordered it to be forced 

Charlotte Temple. 


open. The apartment instantly dis- 
closed the fact that no person had been 
in it the preceding night, the beds ap- 
pearing as though just made. The 
house was instantly a scene of confusion ; 
the garden, the pleasure grounds, were 
searched to no purpose; every apartment 
rung with the names of Miss Temple and 
mademoiselle; but they were too distant 
to hear; and every face wore the marks 
of disappointment. 

Mr. Eldridge was sitting in the par- 
lor, eagerly expecting his granddaughter 
to descend, ready equipped for her jour- 
ney; he heard the confusion that reigned 
in the house — he heard the name of 
Charlotte frequently repeated. 

" What can be the matter ? " said he, 
rising, and opening the door ; " I fear 
some accident has befallen my dear girl." 

The governess entered. The visible 
agitation of her countenance discovered 
that something extraordinary had hap- 

98 Charlotte Temple. 

" Where is Charlotte % " said he. 
u Why does not my child come to wel- 
come her doting parent ? " 

" Be composed, my dear sir," said 
Madame Du Pont ; " do not frighten 
yourself nnnecessarily. She is not in 
the house at present ; but as mademoiselle 
is undoubtedly with her, she will speed- 
ily return in safety, and I hope they will 
both be able to account for this unsea- 
sonable absence in such a manner as 
shall remove our present uneasiness. " 

" Madame," cried the old man, with 
an angry look, " has my child been ac- 
customed to go out without leave, with 
no other company or protector than that 
French-woman? Pardon me, madame, 
I mean no reflection on your country, 
but I never did like Mademoiselle La 
Rue; I think she is a very improper per- 
son to be intrusted with the care of such 
a girl as Charlotte Temple, or to be suf- 
fered to take her from under your im- 
mediate protection." 

Charlotte Temple. 99 

" You wrong me, Mr. Eldridge," said 
she, " if you suppose I have ever per- 
mitted your granddaughter to go out, 
unless with the other ladies. I would to 
Heaven I could form any probable con- 
jecture concerning her absence this 
morning, but it is a mystery to me, 
which her return can alone unravel." 

Servants were now dispatched to every 
place where there was the least hope of 
hearing any tidings of the fugitives, but 
in vain. 

Dreadful were the hours of horrid 
suspense which Mr. Eldridge passed till 
twelve o'clock, when the suspense was 
reduced to a shocking certainty, and ev- 
ery spark of hope, which till then they 
had indulged, was in a moment extin- 

Mr. Eldridge was preparing, with a 
heavy heart, to return to his anxiously- 
expecting children, when Madame Du 
Pont received the following note, with- 
out either name or date: 

100 Charlotte Temple. 

" Miss Temple is well, and wishes to 
relieve the anxiety of her parents, by let- 
ting them know she has voluntarily put 
herself under the protection of a man 
whose future study shall be to make her 
happy. Pursuit is needless; the meas- 
ures taken to avoid discovery are too ef- 
fectual to be eluded. When she thinks 
her friends are reconciled to this pre- 
cipitate step, they may, perhaps, be in- 
formed of her place of residence. Made- 
moiselle is with her." 

As Mademoiselle Du Pont read these 
cruel lines, she turned as pale as ashes, 
her limbs trembled, and she was forced 
to call for a glass of water. She loved 
Charlotte truly; and when she reflected 
on the innocence and gentleness of hei 
disposition, she concluded it must have 
been the advice and machinations of La 
Rue which led her to this imprudent ac- 
tion ; she recollected her agitation on the 
receipt of her mother's letter, and saw 
in it the conflict of her mind. 

Charlotte Temple. 101 

" Does the letter relate to Charlotte? " 
said Mr. Eldridge, having waited some 
time in expectation of Madame Du 
Pont's speaking. 

It does," she said. " Charlotte is 
well, but cannot return to-day." 

" Xot return, madame! Where is she? 
Who will detain her from her fond, ex- 
pecting parents ? " 

" You distract me with these ques- 
tions, Mr. Eldridge. Indeed, I do not 
know where she is, or who has seduced 
her from her duty." 

The whole truth now rushed at once 
upon Mr. Eldridge's mind 

" She has eloped, then," said he; " my 
child is betrayed; the darling, the com- 
fort of my aged heart is lost ! Oh, would 
to heaven I had died but yesterday." 

A violent gush of grief in some meas- 
ure relieved him, and after several vain 
attempts, he at length assumed sufficient 
composure to read the note. 

102 Charlotte Temple. 

"And how shall I return to my chil- 
dren ? " said he. " How approach that 
mansion so late the habitation of peace? 
Alas! my clear Lucy, how will you sup- 
port these heart-rending tidings? or how 
shall I be enabled to console you, who 
need so much consolation myself ? " 

The old man returned to the chaise, 
but the light step and cheerful counten- 
ance were no more; sorrow filled his 
heart and guided his emotions. 

He seated himself in the chaise; his 
venerable head reclined upon his bosom, 
his hands were folded, his eyes fixed on 
vacancy, and the large drops of sorrow 
rolled silently down his cheeks. 

There was a mixture of anguish and 
resignation depicted in his countenance, 
as if he should say: 

" Henceforth, who shall dare to boast 
his happiness, or even in idea contem- 
plate its treasure, lest in the very mo- 
ment his heart is exulting in his own 

Charlotte Temple. 103 

felicity, the object which constitutes that 
felicity should be torn from him ? " 



Slow and heavy passed the time while 
the carriage was conveying Mr. Eldridge 
home ; and yet, when he came in sight of 
the house, he wished a long reprieve 
from the dreadful task of informing Mr. 
and Mrs. Temple of their daughter's 

It is easy to judge the anxiety of these 
affectionate parents, when they found 
the return of their father delayed so 
much beyond the expected time. 

They were now met in the dining- 
parlor, and several of the young people 
who had been invited were already ar- 

104 Charlotte Temple. 

Each different part of the company 
was employed in the same manner — 
looking out at the windows which faced 
the road. 

At length the long-expected chaise ap- 

Mrs. Temple ran out to receive and 
welcome her darling — her young com- 
panions flocked around the door, each 
one eager to give her joy on the return 
of her birthday. 

The door of the chaise was opened. 
Charlotte was not there. 

" Where is my child ? " cried Mrs. 
Temple, in breathless agitation. 

Mr. Eldridge could not answer; he 
took hold of his daughter's hand and led 
her into the house, and sinking on the 
first chair he came to, he burst into tears, 
and sobbed aloud. 

" She is dead ! " cried Mrs. Temple. 
" Oh, my dear Charlotte ? " and, clasp- 
ing her hands in an agony of distress, 
fell into strong hysterics. 

Charlotte Temple. 105 

Mr. Temple, who had stood speechless 
with surprise and fear, now ventured to 
inquire if indeed his Charlotte was no 

Mr. Eldridge led him into another 
apartment, and putting the fatal note 
into his hand, cried: "Bear it like a 
Christian ! " and turned from him, en- 
deavoring to suppress his own too visible 

It would be vain to attempt describing 
what Mr. Temple felt while he hastily 
ran over the dreadful lines. When he 
had finished, the paper dropped from his 
unnerved hand. 

" Gracious Heaven ! " said he, " could 
Charlotte act thus ? " 

X either tear nor sigh escaped him, 
and he sat the image of mute sorrow, till 
aroused from his stupor by the repeated 
shrieks of Mrs. Temple. 

He arose hastily, and rushing into the 
apartment where she was, folded his 

106 Charlotte Temple. 

arms about her, and saying, " Let us be 
patient, my dear Lucy," nature relieved 
his almost bursting heart by a friendly 
gush of tears. 

Should any one, presuming on his 
own philosophic temper, look with an 
eye of contempt on a man who could in- 
dulge in a woman's weakness, let him 
remember that that man was a father, 
and he will then pity the misery which 
wrung those drops from a noble and gen- 
erous heart. 

Mrs. Temple, beginning to be a lit- 
tle more composed, but still imagining 
her child to be dead, her husband, gently 
taking her hand, cried: 

" You are mistaken, my love. Char- 
lotte is not dead." 

" Then she is very ill ; else why did 
she not come? But I will go to her; 
the chaise is still at the door; let me go 
instantly to the dear girl. If I was ill, 
she would fly to attend me, to alleviate 

Charlotte Temple. 107 

my sufferings, and cheer me with her 

" Be calm, my dearest Lucy, and T 
will tell you all," said Mr. Temple. 
" You must not go ; indeed you must not ; 
it will be of no use." 

" Temple," said she, assuming a look 
of firmness and composure, " tell me the 
truth, I beseech you ! I cannot bear this 
dreadful suspense. What misfortune 
has befallen my child? Let me know 
the worst, I will endeavor to bear it as I 

" Lucy," said Mr. Temple, " imagine 
your daughter alive, and in no danger of 
death, what misfortune would you then 
dread ? " 

" There is one misfortune that is 
worse than death. But I know my child 
too well to suspect " 

" Be not too confident, Lucy." 

" Oh, Heaven ! " said she, " what hor- 
rid images do you start? Is it possible 
that she should forget ? " 

108 Charlotte Temple. 

"She has forgotten us all, my love; 
she has preferred the love of a stranger 
to the affectionate protection of her 

" Not eloped ! " cried she, eagerly. 

Mr. Temple was silent. 

" Yon cannot contradict," said she. 
" I see my fate in those tearful eyes. Oh, 
Charlotte — Charlotte! how ill you have 
requited our tenderness. But, Father of 
Mercies," continued she, sinking on her 
knees and raising her streaming eyes and 
clasped hands to Heaven, " this once 
vouchsafe to hear a fond, distracted 
mother's prayer. Oh, let thy bounteous 
Providence watch over the dear, 
thoughtless girl, save her from the mis- 
eries which I fear will be her portion; 
and, oh! of Thine infinite mercy, make 
her not a mother, lest she should some 
day feel what I now suffer ! " 

The last words faltered on her tongue, 
and she fell fainting into the arms of 

Charlotte Temple. 101) 

her husband, who had voluntarily 
dropped on his knees beside her. 

A mother's anguish, when disappoint- 
ed in her tenderest hopes, none but a 
mother can conceive. Yet, my dear 
young readers, I would have you read 
this scene with attention, and reflect that 
you may yourselves one day be mothers. 

Oh, my friends, as you value your 
eternal happiness, wound not, by 
thoughtless ingratitude, the peace of the 
mother who bore you. Kemember the 
tenderness, the care, and unremitting 
anxiety with which she has attended to 
all your wants and wishes from earliest 
infancy to the present clay. Behold the 
mild ray of affectionate applause that 
beams from her eye on the performance 
of your duty ; listen to her reproofs with 
silent attention; they proceed from a 
heart anxious for your future felicity; 
you must love her; nature, all-powerful 
nature, has placed the seeds of filial affec- 
tion in your bosoms. 

110 Charlotte Temple. 

Then, once more read over the sor- 
rows of poor Mrs. Temple; remember, 
the mother whom you so dearly love and 
venerate will feel the same, should you, 
forgetful of the respect due to your 
Maker and yourself, forsake the paths of 
virtue, for those of vice and folly. 



It was with the utmost difficulty that 
the united efforts of mademoiselle and 
Montraville could support Charlotte's 
spirits during their short ride from Chi- 
chester to Portsmouth, where a boat 
waited to take them immediately on 
board the ship in which they were about 
to embark for America. 

As soon as she became tolerably com- 

Charlotte Temple. Ill 

posed, she entreated pen and ink to write 
to her parents. This she did in the most 
affecting, artless manner, entreating 
their pardon and blessing, and describing 
the dreadful situation of her mind, the 
conflict she suffered in endeavoring to 
conquer this unfortunate attachment, 
and concluded with saying her only hope 
of future comfort consisted in the (per- 
haps delusive) idea she indulged, of be- 
ing once more folded in their protecting 
arms, and hearing the words of peace and 
pardon from their lips. 

The tears streamed incessantly while 
she was writing, and she was frequently 
obliged to lay down her pen; but when 
the task was completed, and she had com- 
mitted the letter to the care of Montra- 
ville, to be sent to the postofflce, she be- 
came more calm, and indulging the de- 
lightful hope of soon receiving an answer 
that would seal her pardon, she in some 
measure assumed her usual cheerfulness. 

112 Charlotte Temple. 

But Montraville knew too well the 
consequences that must unavoidably en- 
sue should this letter reach Mr. Temple; 
he, therefore, craftily resolved to walk 
on the deck, tear it to pieces, and com- 
mit the fragments to the care of Nep- 
tune, who might or might not, as it suit- 
ed his convenience, convey them on 

All Charlotte's hopes and wishes were 
now centered in one, namely, that the 
fleet be detained at Spithead till she 
might receive a letter from her friends; 
but in this she was disappointed, for the 
second morning after she went on board 
the signal was made, the fleet weighed 
anchor, and in a few hours, the wind be- 
ing favorable, they bade adieu to the 
white cliffs of Albion. 

In the meantime every inquiry that 
could be thought of was made by Mr. 
and Mrs. Temple; for many days did 
they indulge the fond hope that she was 

Charlotte Temple. 


merely gone off to be married, and that 
when the indissoluble knot was once tied, 
she would return with the partner she 
had chosen and entreat their blessing and 

"And shall we not forgive her ? " said 
Mr. Temple. 

" Forgive her ! " exclaimed the moth- 
er. "Oh! yes; whatever be her errors, 
is she not our child? And though bow- 
ed even to the earth with shame and re- 
morse, is it not our duty to raise the poor 
penitent and whisper peace and comfort 
to her desponding :oul ? "Would she but 
return, with rapture would I fold her to 
my heart and bury every remembrance 
of her faults in the dear embrace." 

But still, day after day passed on and 
Charlotte did not appear, nor were any 
tidings to be heard of her; yet each ris- 
ing morning was welcomed by some new 
hope. The evening brought with it dis- 
appointment. At length hope was no 

114 Charlotte Temple. 

more, despair usurped her place, and the 
mansion that was once the mansion of 
peace became the habitation of pale, de- 
jected melancholy. 

The cheerful smile that was wont to 
adorn the face of Mrs. Temple was fled, 
and had it not been for the support of 
unaffected piety, and a consciousness of 
having ever set before her child the fair- 
est example, she must have sunk under 
this heavy affliction. 

" Since," said she, " the severest scru- 
tiny cannot charge me with any breach 
of duty, to have deserved this severe 
chastisement, I will bow before the 
Power who inflicts it with humble resig- 
nation to His will, nor shall the duty of 
a wife be totally absorbed in the feelings 
of the mother; I will endeavor to seem 
more cheerful, and by appearing in some 
measure to have conquered my own sor- 
row, alleviate the sufferings of my hus- 
band, and arouse him from the torpor 

Charlotte Temple. 115 

into which this misfortune has plunged 
him. My father, too, demands my care 
and attention. I must not, by a selfish 
indulgence of my own grief, forget the 
interest those two dear objects take in 
my happiness or misery. I will wear a 
smile on my face, though the thorn 
rankles in my heart, and if by so doing, 
I contribute in the smallest degree to re- 
store their peace of mind, I shall be am- 
ply rewarded for the pain the conceal- 
ment of my own feelings may occasion." 

Thus argued this excellent woman, 
and in the execution of so laudable a 
resolution, we shall leave her to follow 
the fortunes of the hapless victim of im- 
prudence and evil counselors. 



Ox board of the ship on which Char- 
lotte and mademoiselle were embarked, 
was an officer of large, unencumbered 
fortune and elevated rank, and whom I 
shall call Crayton. 

He was one of those men who, having 
traveled in their youth, pretend to have 
contracted a peculiar fondness for every- 
thing foreign, and to hold in contempt 
the productions of their own country, 
and this affected partiality extended even 
to the women. 

With him, therefore, the blushing 
modesty and unaffected simplicity of 
Charlotte passed unnoticed, but the for- 
ward pertness of La Rue, the freedom of 
her conversation, the elegance of her per- 


Charlotte Temple. 117 

son, mixed with a certain engaging je 
ne sais quoi, perfectly enchanted him. 

The reader, no doubt, has already de- 
veloped the character of La Rue; de- 
signing, artful and selfish, she accepted 
the devoirs of Belcour because she was 
heartily weary of the retired life she led 
at the school, wished to be released from 
what she deemed a slavery, and to re- 
turn to that vortex of folly and dissipa- 
tion, which had once plunged her into 
the deepest misery; but her plan, she 
flattered herself, was now better formed ; 
she resolved to put herself under the pro- 
tection of no man, till she had first se- 
cured a settlement; but the clandestine 
manner in which she left Madame Du 
Pont's prevented her putting this plan 
into execution, though Belcour solemn- 
ly protested he would make her a hand- 
some settlement the moment they arrived 
at Portsmouth. This he afterward con- 
trived to evade by a pretended hurry of 
business. La Rue, readily conceiving 

118 Charlotte Temple. 

he never meant to fulfill his promise, de- 
termined to change her battery, and at- 
tack the heart of Colonel Crayton. She 
soon discovered the partiality he enter- 
tained for her nation, and having impos- 
ed on him a feigned tale of distress, 
represented Belcour as a villain who had 
seduced her from her friends under the 
promise of marriage, and afterward be- 
trayed her; pretending great remorse for 
the errors she had committed, and de- 
claring that, whatever her affection 
might have been, it was now entirely 
extinguished, and she wished for noth- 
ing more than an opportunity to leave a 
course of life which her soul abhorred; 
but she had no friends to apply to; they 
had all renounced her, and guilt and 
misery would undoubtedly be her future 
portion through life. 

Crayton was possessed of many ami- 
able qualities, though the peculiar trait 
in his character, which we have already 

Charlotte Temple. 119 

mentioned, in a great measure threw a 
shade over them. He was beloved for his 
humanity and benevolence by all who 
him, but he was easy and unsuspicious 
himself, and became a dupe to the arti- 
fice of others. 

He was, when very young, united to 
an amiable Parisian lady, and perhaps 
it was his affection for her that laid the 
foundation for the partiality he ever re- 
tained for the whole nation. He had by 
her one daughter, who entered into the 
world but a few hours before her mother 
left it. This lady was universally be- 
loved and admired, being endowed with 
all the virtues of her mother, without the 
weakness of her father. She was mar- 
ried to Major Beauchamp, and was at 
this time in the fleet with her father, at- 
tending her husband to New York. 

Crayton was melted by the affected 
contrition and distress of La Hue; he 
would converse with her for hours, read 

120 Charlotte Temple. 

to her, play cards with her, listen to all 
her complaints, and promise to protect 
her to the utmost of his power. La Rue 
easily saw his character ; her sole aim was 
to awaken a passion in his bosom that 
might turn out to her advantage, and in 
this aim she was but too successful; for, 
before the voyage was finished, the in- 
fatuated colonel gave her from under his 
hand a promise of marriage on their ar- 
rival at New York, under forfeiture of 
five thousand pounds. 

And how did our poor Charlotte pass 
her time during a tedious and tempest- 
uous passage? Naturally delicate, the 
fatigue and sickness she endured ren- 
dered her so weak as to be almost entire- 
ly confined to her bed; yet the kindness 
and attention of Montraville, in some 
measure contributed to alleviate her suf- 
ferings, and the hope of hearing from 
her friends soon after their arrival, kept 
up her spirits, and cheered many a 
gloomy night. 

Charlotte Temple. 121 

But during the voyage a great revolu- 
tion took place, not only in the fortune 
of La Rue, but in the bosom of Belcour. 
While in the pursuit of his amour with 
mademoiselle, he had attended little to 
the interesting, unobtrusive charms of 
Charlotte; but when, cloyed by posses- 
sion, and disgusted with the art and dis- 
simulation of the one, he beheld the sim- 
plicity and gentleness of the other, the 
contract became too striking not to fill 
him at once with surprise and admira- 
tion. He frequently conversed with 
Charlotte; he found her sensible, well 
informed, but diffident and unassuming. 
The langor which the fatigue of her 
body and perturbation of her mind 
spread over her delicate features, served 
only, in his opinion, to render her more 
lovely; he knew that Montraville did noi: 
design to marry her, and he formed a 
resolution to endeavor to gain her him- 
self, whenever Montraville should leave 


Charlotte Temple. 

Let not the reader imagine Belcour's 
designs were honorable. Alas! when 
once a woman has forgot the respect due 
to herself by yielding to the solicitations 
of illicit, love, she loses all the conse- 
quence, even in the eyes of the man 
whose art has betrayed her, and for 
whose sake she has sacrificed every 
valuable consideration. 

The heedless Fair, who stoops to guilty joys, 
A man may pity — but he must despise. 

Nay, every libertine will think he has 
a right to insult her with his licentious 
passions; and should the unhappy creat- 
ure shrink from the insolent overture, lie 
will sneeringly taunt her with pretense 
of modesty. 



On the day before their arrival at New 
York, after dinner, Crayton arose from 
his seat, and placing himself by made- 
moiselle, thus addressed the company: 

"As we have nearly arrived at our des- 
tined port, I think it but my duty to in- 
form you, my friends, that this lady," 
(taking her hand) " has placed herself 
under my protection. I have seen and 
severely felt the anguish of her heart, 
and through every shade which cruelty 
or malice may throw over her, can dis- 
cover the most amiable qualities. I 
thought it but necessary to mention my 
esteem for her before our disembarka- 
tion, as it is my fixed resolution, the 
morning after we land, to give her an 
undoubted title to my favor and protec- 


124 Charlotte Temple. 

tion by honorably uniting my fate to 
hers. I would wish svery gentleman 
hence, therefore, to remember that her 
honor henceforth is mine; and," con- 
tinued he, looking at iBelcour, " should 
any man presume to speak in the least 
disrespectfully of her, I shall not hesi- 
tate to pronounce him a scoundrel." 

Belcour cast at him a smile of con- 
tempt, and bowed profoundly low; he 
wished mademoiselle much joy in the 
proposed union; and assured the colonel 
that he need not be in the least appre- 
hensive of any one throwing the least 
odium on the character of his lady, shook 
him by the hand with ridiculous gravity, 
and left the cabin. 

The truth was, he was glad to get rid 
of La Rue, and so he was but freed from 
her, he cared not who fell a victim to 
her infamous arts. 

The inexperienced Charlotte was as- 
tonished at what she heard. She thought 

Charlotte Temple. 125 

La Rue had, like herself, only been 
urged by the force of her attachment to 
Belcour, to quit her friends, and follow 
him to the seat of war. How wonder- 
ful, then, that she should resolve to 
marry another man! It was certainly 
extremely wrong. It was indelicate. 
She mentioned her thoughts to Montra- 
ville. He laughed at her simplicity, 
called her a little idiot, and patting her 
on the cheek, said she knew nothing of 
the world. 

" If the world sanctions such things, 
'tis a very bad world, I think," said 
Charlotte. " Why, I always understood 
that they were to have been married 
when they arrived at New York. I am 
sure Mademoiselle told me Belcour 
promised to marry her. 

" Well, and suppose he did ? " 

" Why, he should be obliged to keep 
his word, I think." 

" Well, but I suppose he has changed 

126 Charlotte Temple. 

his mind," said Montraville, " and then, 
you know, the case is altered." 

Charlotte looked at him attentively 
for a moment. A full sense of her own 
situation rushed upon her own mind. 
She burst into tears, and remained silent. 
Montraville too well understood the 
cause of her tears. He kissed her cheek, 
and bidding her not to make herself un- 
easy, unable to bear the silent but keen 
remonstrance, hastily left her. 

The next morning by sunrise they 
found themselves at anchor before the 
city of Xew York. A boat was ordered 
to convey the ladies on shore. Crayton 
accompanied them, and they were shown 
to a house of public entertainment. 
Scarcely were they seated, when the door 
opened and the colonel found himself in 
the arms of his daughter, who had land- 
ed a few minutes before him. The first 
transport of meeting subsided, Crayton 
introduced his daughter to Mademoiselle 

Charlotte Temple. 127 

La Rue as an old friend of her mother's 
(for the artful Frenchwoman had really 
made it appear to the credulous colonel 
that she was in the same convent as his 
first wife, and though much younger, 
had received many tokens of her esteem 
and regard). 

" If, mademoiselle," said Mrs. Beau- 
champ, " you were the friend of my 
mother, you must be worthy the esteem 
of all good hearts." 

" Mademoiselle will soon honor our 
family," said Crayton, " by supplying 
the place that valuable woman filled; 
and as you are married, my dear, I think 
you will not blame " 

" Hush, my dear sir," replied Mrs. 
Beauchamp. " I know my duty too well 
to scrutinize your conduct. Be assured, 
my dear father, your happiness is mine. 
I shall rejoice in it. But tell me," con- 
tinued she, turning to Charlotte, " who 
is this lovely girl? Is she your sister, 
mademoiselle ? " 

128 Charlotte Temple. 

A blush, deep as the glow of the car- 
nation, suffused the cheek of Charlotte. 

" It is a young lady," replied the 
colonel, " who came in the same vessel 
with us from England." 

• He then drew his daughter aside and 
told her in a whisper, that Charlotte was 
the mistress of Montraville. 

" What a pity ! " said Mrs. Beau- 
champ, softly, casting a most compas- 
sionate glance at her. " But surely her 
mind is not depraved. The goodness of 
her heart is depicted in her ingenuous 

Charlotte caught the word pity. 

"And am I already fallen so low ? " 
said she. A sigh escaped her, and a tear 
was ready to start, but Montraville ap- 
peared, and she checked the rising emo- 
tion. Mademoiselle went with the colo- 
nel and his daughter to another apart- 
ment. Charlotte remained with Mon- 
traville and Belcour. The next morn- 

Charlotte Temple. 129 

ing the colonel performed his promise, 
and La Rue became in due form Mrs. 
Crayton, exulted in her good fortune, 
and dared to look with an eye of con- 
tempt on the unfortunate but far less 
guilty Charlotte. 



"And am I indeed fallen so low," said 
Charlotte, " as to be only pitied ? Will 
the voice of approbation no more meet 
my ear ? And shall I never again pos- 
sess a friend whose face will wear a smile 
of joy whenever I approach? Alas! how 
thoughtless, how dreadfully imprudent 
have I been! I know not which is the 
most painful to endure — the sneer of 
contempt, or the glance of compassion 

130 Charlotte Temple. 

which is depicted on the various coun- 
tenances of my own sex; they are both 
equally humiliating. Ah ! my dear par- 
ents, could you now see the child of your 
affections, the daughter whom you so 
dearly loved, a poor, solitary being, with- 
out society, here wearing out her heavy 
hours in deep regret and anguish of 
heart — no kind friend of her owm sex to 
whom she can unbosom her griefs, no be- 
loved mother, no woman of character to 
appear in her company; and low as your 
Charlotte is fallen, she cannot associate 
with infamy." 

These w T ere the painful reflections 
which occupied the mind of Charlotte. 
Montraville had placed her in a small 
house a few miles from ^'ew York. He 
gave her one female attendant, and sup- 
plied her with what money she wanted; 
but business and pleasure so entirely oc- 
cupied his time, that he had but little to 
devote to the woman wdiom he had 

Charlotte Temple. 131 

brought from all her connections, and 
robbed of innocence. Sometimes, in- 
deed, he would steal out at the close of 
the evening, and pass a few hours with 
her. And then, so much was she attach- 
ed to him, that all her sorrows were for- 
gotten while blessed with his society. 
She would enjoy a walk by moonlight, 
or sit by him in a little arbor at the bot- 
tom of the garden, and play on the harp, 
accompanying it with her plaintive, har- 
monious voice. But often, very often, 
did he promise to renew his visits, and 
forgetful of his promise, leave her to 
mourn her disappointment. What pain- 
ful hours of expectation would she pass! 
She would sit at a window which looked 
toward a field he used to cross, counting 
the minutes and straining her eyes to 
catch the first glimpse of his person, till, 
blinded with tears of disappointment, 
she would lean her head on her hands, 
and give free vent to her sorrow; then 

132 Charlotte Temple. 

catching at some new hope, she would 
again renew her watchful position till 
the shades of evening enveloped every 
object in a dusky cloud; she would then 
renew her complaints, and, with a heart 
bursting with disappointed love and 
w r ounded sensibility, retire to a bed 
which remorse had strewed with thorns, 
and court in vain that comforter of 
weary nature (who seldom visits the un- 
happy) to come and steep her senses in 

Who can form an adequate idea of the 
sorrow that preyed upon the mind of 
Charlotte? The wife, whose breast 
glows with affection for her husband, 
and who in return meets only indiffer- 
ence, can but faintly conceive her an- 

Dreadfully painful is the situation of 
such a woman; but she has many com- 
forts of which our poor Charlotte was 
deprived. The duteous, faithful wife, 

Charlotte Temple. 133 

though treated with indifference, has one 
solid pleasure within her own bosom; 
she can reflect that she has not deserved 
neglect — that she has ever fulfilled the 
duties of her station with the strictest ex- 
actness; she may hope by constant as- 
siduity and unremitted attention to re- 
call her wanderer, and be doubly happy 
in his returning affection; she knows he 
cannot leave her to unite himself to an- 
other; he cannot cast her out to poverty 
and contempt. 

She looks around and sees the smile 
of friendly welcome or the tear of affec- 
tionate consolation on the face of every 
person whom she favors with her es- 
teem, and from all these circumstances 
she gathers comfort; but the poor girl 
by thoughtless passion led astray, who, 
in parting with honor, has forfeited the 
esteem of the very man to whom she has 
sacrificed everything dear and valuable 
in life, feels his indifference to be the 

134 Charlotte Temple. 

fruit of her own folly, and laments the 
want of power to recall his lost affec- 
tions; she knows that there is no tie but 
honor, and that, in a man who has been 
guilty of seduction, is but very feeble; 
he may leave her in a moment of shame 
and want; he may marry and forsake her 
forever, and should he do so, she has no 
redress, no friendly, soothing companion 
to pour into her mind the balm of con- 
solation, no benevolent hand to lead her 
back to the path of rectitude; she has 
disgraced her friends, forfeited the good 
opinion of the world, and undone her- 

She feels herself like a poor solitary 
being in the midst of surrounding multi- 
tudes; shame bows her to the earth, re- 
morse tears her distracted mind, and 
guilt, poverty and disease close the 
dreadful scene; she sinks unnoticed to 

The finger of contempt may point out 

Charlotte Temple. 


to some passing daughter of youthful 
mirth the humble bed where lies this 
frail sister of mortality. 

And will she, in the unbounded 
gayety of heart, exult in her unblem- 
ished fame and triumph over the silent 
ashes of the dead? 

Oh, no; she has a heart of sensibility; 
she will stop and thus address the un- 
happy victim of folly : 

" Thou hast thy faults; but surely thy 
sufferings have expatiated them; thy er- 
rors brought thee to an early grave; but 
thou wert a fellow-creature — thou hast 
been unhappy — then be those errors for- 

Then, as she stoops to pick the nox- 
ious weed from off the sod, a tear will 
fall and consecrate the spot to Charity. 

Forever honored be the sacred drop of 
humanity; the angel of mercy shall 
record its source, and the soul from 
whence it sprung shall be immortal. 


Charlotte Temple. 

My dear madam, contract not your 
brow into a frown of disapprobation. I 
mean not to extenuate the faults of those 
unhappy women who fall victims of 
guilt and folly; but surely, when w T e re- 
£ect how many errors we ourselves are 
subject to, how many secret faults lie 
liidden in the recesses of our hearts, 
which we would blush to have brought 
Into open day, and yet those faults re- 
quire the lenity and pity of a benevolent 
judge, or awful w r ould be our prospect 
of futurity. I say, my dear madam, 
Avhen we consider this, we surely may 
pity the faults of others. 

Believe me, many an unfortunate fe- 
male, who has once strayed into the 
thorny paths of vice, would gladly re- 
turn to virtue were any generous friend 
to endeavor to raise and reassure her; 
but alas! it cannot be, you say, the 
world would deride and scoff*. 

Then let me tell you, madam, it is a 

Charlotte Temple. 137 

very unfeeling world, and does not de- 
serve half the blessings which a bounti- 
ful Providence showers upon it. 

Oh, thou benevolent Giver of all good ! 
how shall we erring mortals dare to look 
up to thy mercy in the great day of re- 
tribution, if we now uncharitably refuse 
to overlook the errors, or alleviate the 
miseries of our fellow creatures! 



Julia Franklin was the only child 
of a man of large property, who left her 
independent mistress of an unencum- 
bered income of seven hundred a year, 
at the age of eighteen; she was a girl of 
lively disposition, and humane, suscep- 
tible heart. She resided In New York 

Charlotte Temple. 

with an uncle who loved her too well, 
and had too high an opinion of her pru- 
dence, to scrutinize her actions so much 
as would have been necessary with many 
young ladies who were not blest with 
her discretion. She was, at the time 
Montraville arrived at New York, the 
life of society, and the universal toast. 
Montraville was introduced to her by the 
following accident : 

One night when he was upon guard, 
a dreadful fire broke out near Mr. Frank- 
lin's house, which in a few hours reduced 
that and several others to ashes; fortun- 
ately no lives were lost, and by the as- 
siduity of the soldiers much valuable 
property was saved from the flames. In 
the midst of the confusion an old gentle- 
man came up to Montraville, and putting 
a small box into his hands, cried: " Keep 
it, my good sir, till I come to you' 
again; " and then rushed again into the 
thickest of the crowd; Montraville saw 
him no more. 

Charlotte Temple. 


He waited till the fire was quite ex- 
tinguished, and the mob dispersed, but 
in vain; the old gentleman did not ap- 
pear to claim his property; and Montra- 
ville, fearing to make an inquiry, lest 
he should meet with impostors who 
might lay claim without any legal right 
to the box, carried it to his lodgings, and 
locked it up; he naturally imagined that 
the person who committed it to his care 
knew him, and would in a day or two re- 
claim it; but several w T eeks passed on, 
and no inquiry being made, he began to 
be uneasy, and resolved to examine the 
contents of the box, and if they were, as 
he supposed, valuable, to spare no pains 
to discover the owner, and restore them 
to him. Upon opening it, he found it 
contained jewels to a large amount, 
about two hundred pounds in money,, 
and a miniature picture set for a brace- 
let. On examining the picture, he 
thought he had somewhere seen features 

140 Charlotte Temple. 

very like it, but could not recollect 
where. A few days after, being at a 
public assembly, he saw ZMiss Franklin, 
and the likeness was too evident to be 
mistaken; he inquired among his brother 
officers if any of them knew her, and 
found one who was upon terms of in- 
timacy with the family. " Then intro- 
duce me to her immediately/ said he, 
u for I am certain I can inform her of 
something which will give her particular 

He w 7 as immediately introduced, 
found she was the owner of the jewels, 
and was invited to breakfast the next 
morning, in order to restore them. The 
whole evening Montraville was honored 
with Julia's hand; the lively sallies of 
her wit, the elegance of her manner, 
powerfully charmed him; he forgot 
Charlotte, and indulged himself in say- 
ing everything that was polite and ten- 
der to Julia. But on retiring, recollec- 

Charlotte Temple. 141 

tion returned. " What am I about \ " 
said he. tk Though I cannot marry Char- 
lotte, I cannot be villain enough to for- 
sake her, nor must 1 dare to trifile with 
the heart of Julia Franklin. I will re- 
turn this box," said he, " which has been 
the source of so much uneasiness already, 
and in the evening pay a visit to my 
poor, melancholy Charlotte, and en- 
deavor to forget this fascinating Julia." 

He arose, dressed himself, and taking 
the picture out, " I will reserve this from 
the rest," said he, u and by presenting it 
to her when she thinks it is lost, enhance 
the value of the obligation." He re- 
paired to Mr. Franklin's, and found 
Julia in the breakfast parlor alone. 

" How happy am I, madam," said he, 
" that being the fortunate instrument of 
saving these jewels, has been the means 
of procuring me the acquaintance of so 
amiable a lady. There are the jewels 
and money all safe." 


Charlotte Temple. 

" But where is the picture, sir ? " said 

" Here, madam. I would not willing- 
ly part with it." 

u It is the portrait of my mother," said 
she, taking it from him ; " 'tis all that re- 
mains." She pressed it to her lips, and 
a tear trembled in her eye. Montraville 
glanced his eyes on her gray night- 
gown and black ribbon, and his own feel- 
ings prevented a reply. 

Julia Franklin was the very reverse 
of Charlotte Temple; she was tall, ele- 
gantly shaped, and possessed much of the 
air and manner of a woman of fashion; 
her complexion was a clear brown, enliv- 
ened with the glow of 'health ; her eyes, 
full, black, and sparkling, darted their 
intelligent glances through long silken 
lashes; her hair was shining brown, and 
her features regular and striking; there 
was an air of innocent gayety that played 
about her countenance where good- 
humor sat triumphant. 

Charlotte Temple. 


" I have mistaken/' said Montraville. 
"I imagined I loved Charlotte; but, 
alas! I am too late convinced my attach- 
ment to her was merely the impulse of 
the moment. I fear I have not only en- 
tailed lasting misery on that poor girl, 
but also thrown a barrier in the way of 
my own happiness which it will be im- 
possible to surmount. I feel I love 
Julia Franklin with ardor and sincerity; 
yet, when in her presence, I am sensible 
of my own inability to offer a heart 
worthy her acceptance, and remain si- 

Full of these painful thoughts, Mon- 
traville walked out to see Charlotte. She 
saw him approaching, and ran out to 
meet him. She banished from her 
countenance the air of discontent, which 
ever appeared when he was absent, and 
met him with a smile of joy. 

" I thought you had forgotten me, 
Montraville," said she, " and was very 

144 Charlotte Temple. 

" I shall never forget you, Charlotte," 
he replied, pressing her hand. 

The uncommon gravity of his coun- 
tenance and the brevity of his reply 
alarmed her. 

" You are not well," said she ; " your 
hand it hot ; your eyes are heavy ; you are 

" I am a villain," said he mentally, as 
he turned from her to hide his emotion. 

" But come," continued she, tenderly, 
" you shall go to bed, and I will sit by 
and watch you; you shall be better when 
you have slept." 

Montraville was glad to retire, and by 
pretending to sleep, conceal the agitation 
of his mind from her penetrating eye. 
Charlotte watched him until a late hour, 
and then, lying softly down by his side, 
sunk into a profound sleep, from which 
she awoke not till late the next morning. 


" Virtue never appears so amiable as when 
reaching forth her hand to raise a fallen sister." 
—Chapter of Accidents. 

When Charlotte awoke she missed 
Montraville, but thinking he might have 
risen early to enjoy the beauties of the 
morning, she was preparing to follow 
him, when casting her eye on the table, 
she saw a note, and opening it hastily, 
she found these words: 

" My dear Charlotte must not be sur- 
prised if she does not see me again for 
some time; unavoidable business will 
prevent me that pleasure. Be assured 
I am quite well this morning, and what 
your fond imagination magnified into ill- 
ness, was nothing more than fatigue, 
which a few hours' rest has entirely re- 
moved. Make yourself happy, and be 
certain of the unalterable friendship of 


146 Charlotte Temple. 

"Friendship" said Charlotte, em- 
phatically, as she finished the note. " Is 
it come to this at last? Alas! poor for- 
saken Charlottee! Thy doom is but too 
apparent. Montraville is no longer in- 
terested in thy happiness; and shame, re- 
morse, and disappointed love will hence- 
forth be thy only attendants ! " 

Though these were the ideas that in- 
voluntarily rushed upon the mind of 
Charlotte, as she perused the fatal note, 
yet, after a few hours elapsed, the siren 
hope again took possession of her bosom, 
and she flattered herself she could on the 
second perusal discover an air of tender- 
ness in the few lines he had left, and 
which had at first escaped her notice. 

" He certainly cannot be so base as to 
leave me," said she; " and in styling him- 
self as my friend, does he not promise to 
protect me? I will not torment myself 
with these causeless fears; I will place 
confidence in his honor, and sure he will 
not be so unjust as to abuse it." 

Charlotte Temple. 


Just as she had, by this manner of 
reasoning, brought her mind to some 
tolerable degree of composure, she was 
surprised by a visit from Belcour. The 
dejection visible in Charlotte's counten- 
ance, her swollen eyes and neglected at- 
tire, at once told him she was unhappy. 

He made no doubt Montraville had, 
by his coldness, alarmed her suspicions, 
and was resolved, if possible, to arouse 
her jealousy, urge her to reproach him, 
and by that mean^ occasion a breach be- 
tween them. 

" If I can once convince her that she 
has a rival," said he, " she will listen to 
my passion, if it is only to revenge his 

Belcour knew but little of the female 
heart; and what he did know was only 
of those of loose and dissolute lives. 

He had no idea that a woman might 
fall a victim to imprudence, and yet re- 
tain so strong a sense of honor as to re- 

148 Charlotte Temple. 

ject, with horror and contempt, every so- 
licitation to a second fault. 

He never imagined that a gentle, gen- 
erous female heart, once attached, when 
treated with unkindness, might break, 
but would never harbor a thought of re- 

His visit was not long, but before he 
went, he fixed a scorpion in the heart of 
Charlotte, whose venom embittered 
every future hour of her life. 

We will turn now, for a moment, to 
Colonel Crayton. 

He had been three months married, 
and in that little time had discovered 
that the conduct of his lady was not so 
prudent as it ought to have been, but re- 
monstrance was vain; her temper was 
violent, and to the colonel's great mis- 
fortune, he had conceived a sincere af- 
fection for her; she saw her own power, 
and with the art of Circe, made every ac- 
tion appear to him in what light she 

Charlotte Temple. 149 

pleased; his acquaintances laughed at his 
blindness, his friends pitied his infatua- 
tion, his amiable daughter, Mrs. Beau- 
champ, in secret deplored the loss of her 
father's affection, and grieved that he 
should be so entirely swayed by an artful 
and, she much feared, infamous woman. 

Mrs. Beauchamp was mild and engag- 
ing; she loved not the hurry and bustle 
of a city, and had prevailed on her hus- 
band to take a house a few T miles from 
New York. 

Chance led her into the same neigh- 
borhood with Charlotte. Their houses 
stood within a short space of each other, 
and their gardens joined. 

She had not been long in her new 
habitation before the figure of Charlotte 
struck her; she recognized her interest- 
ing features; she saw the melancholy so 
conspicuous in her countenance, and her 
heart bled at reflecting that, perhaps, de- 
prived of honor, friends, and all that was 

150 Charlotte Temple. 

valuable in this life, she was doomed to 
linger out a wretched existence in a 
strange land, and sink broken-hearted 
into an untimely grave. 

" Would to Heaven I could snatch her 
from so hard a fate ! " said she, " but the 
merciless world has barred the doors of 
compassion against the poor, weak girl, 
who, perhaps, had she one kind friend to 
raise and reassure her, would gladly re- 
turn to peace and virtue, nay, even the 
woman who dares to pity and endeavors 
to recall a wandering sister, incurs the 
sneer of contempt and ridicule, for an 
action in which even angels are said to 

The longer Mrs. Beauchamp was a 
witness to the solitary life Charlotte led, 
the more she wished to speak to her; and 
often as she saw her cheeks wet with 
tears of anguish, she would say — " Dear 
sufferer, how gladly would I pour into 
your heart the balm of consolation, were 
it not for the fear of derision." 

Charlotte Temple. 


But an incident soon happened which 
made her resolve to brave even the 
scoffs of the world, rather than not to 
enjoy the heavenly satisfaction of com- 
forting a despondent fellow-creature. 

Mrs. Beauehamp was an early riser. 
She was one morning walking in the gar- 
den, leaning on her husband's arm, when 
the sound of a harp attracted their no- 
tice; they listened attentively, and heard 
a soft, melodious voice, distinctly sing- 
ing the following stanzas: 

" In vain thy glories bid me rise, 
To hail the new-born day; 
Alas! my morning sacrifice, 
Is still to weep and pray. 

" For what are nature's charms combin'd 
• To one whose weary breast 
Can neither peace, nor comfort find, 
Nor friend whereon to rest? 

" Oh! never, never! whilst I live 
Can my heart's anguish cease; 
Come, friendly death, thy mandate give, 
And let me be at peace." 

" 'Tis poor Charlotte ! " said Mrs. 
Beauehamp, the pellucid drop of human- 
ity stealing down her cheek. 


Charlotte Temple. 

Major Beauchamp was alarmed at her 
emotion. " What, Charlotte ? " said he. 
" Do you know her 1 99 

In the accent of a pitying angel did 
she disclose to her husband Charlotte's 
unhappy situation, and the frequent 
wish she had formed of being serviceable 
to her. 

" I fear," continued she, " the poor 
girl has been basely betrayed; and if I 
thought you would not blame me, I 
would pay her a visit, offer her my 
friendship, and endeavor to restore to 
her heart that peace she seems to have 
lost, and so pathetically laments. Who 
knows, my dear," laying her hand affec- 
tionately on his arm, " who knows but 
she has left some kind, affectionate par- 
ents to lament her errors, and would she 
return, they might with rapture receive 
the poor penitent, and wash away her 
faults in tears of joy? Oh! what a 
glorious reflection would it be for me 

Charlotte Temple. 153 

could I be the happy instrument of re- 
storing her. Her heart may not be de- 
praved, Beauchamp." 

" Exalted woman/' cried Beauchamp, 
embracing her, " how dost thou rise ev- 
ery moment in my esteem ! Follow the 
impulse of thy generous heart, my 
Emily. Let prudes and fools censure, 
if they dare, and blame a sensibility they 
never felt. I will exultingly tell them 
that the truly virtuous heart is ever in- 
clined to pity and forgive the errors of 
its fellow-creatures." 

A beam of exulting joy played around 
the animated countenance of Mrs. Beau- 
champ at these encomiums bestowed on 
her by a beloved husband; the most de- 
lightful sensations pervaded her heart; 
and, having breakfasted, she prepared to 
visit Charlotte. 



Teach me to feel another's woe; 

To hide the fault I see; 
That mercy I to others show, 

That mercy show to me. — Pope. 

When Mrs. Beauchamp was dressed 
she began to feel embarrassed at the 
thought of beginning an acquaintance 
with Charlotte, and was distressed how 
to make the first visit. " I cannot go 
without some introduction/ 7 said she. 
" It will look like impertinent curiosity." 
At length, recollecting herself, she 
stepped into the garden, and, gathering a 
few fine cucumbers, took them in her 
hand by way of apology for her visit. 

A glow of conscious shame vermil- 
ioned Charlotte's face as Mrs. Beau- 
champ entered. 

" You will pardon me, madam," said 


Charlotte Temple. 105 

she, " for not having before paid my re- 
spects to so amiable a neighbor; bnt we 
English people always keep up, whither 
we go, that reserve which is the charac- 
teristic of our nation. I have taken the 
liberty to bring you a few cucumbers; 
for I had observed you had none in your 

Charlotte, though naturally polite and 
well-bred, was so confused she could 
hardly speak. Her kind visitor endeav- 
ored to relieve her by not noticing her 
embarrassment. " I am come, madam/' 
continued she, " to request you to spend 
the day w T ith me. I shall be alone, and 
as we are both strangers in this country, 
we may hereafter be extremely happy 
in each other's friendship." 

" Your friendship, madam," said 
Charlotte, blushing, " is an honor to all 
who are favored with it. Little as I have 
seen of this part of the world, I am no 
stranger to Mrs. Beauchamp's goodness 

156 Charlotte Temple. 

of heart and known humanity; but my 

friendship " She paused, glanced 

her eye upon her own visible situation, 
and in spite of her endeavors to suppress 
them, burst into tears. 

Mrs. Beauchamp guessed the source 
from whence these tears flowed. " You 
seem unhappy, madam," said she; " shall 
I be thought worthy your confidence? 
Will you intrust me with the cause of 
your sorrow, and rest on my assurance to 
exert my utmost power to serve you ? " 
Charlotte returned a look of gratitude, 
but could not speak, and Mrs. Beau- 
champ continued : " My heart was inter- 
ested in your behalf the first moment I 
saw you; and I only lament I had not 
made earlier overtures towards an ac- 
quaintance ; but I flatter myself you will 
henceforth consider me as your friend." 

" Oh, madam ! " said Charlotte, " I 
have forfeited the good opinion of all my 
friends; I have forsaken them, and un- 
done myself." 

Charlotte Temple. 157 

" Come — come, my dear," said Mrs. 
Beauchamp, "you must not indulge in 
these gloomy thoughts; you are not, I 
hope, so unhappy as you imagine your- 
self; endeavor to be composed, and let 
me be favored with your company at 
dinner, when, if you can bring yourself 
to think me your friend and repose con- 
fidence in me, I am ready to convince 
you that it shall not be abused." 

She then arose and bade her good- 

At dining hour, Charlotte repaired to 
Mrs. Beauchamp's, and during dinner 
assumed as composed an aspect as possi- 
ble, but when the cloth was removed, 
she summoned all her resolution, and de- 
termined to make Mrs. Bauchamp ac- 
quainted with every circumstance pre- 
ceding her elopement, and the earnest 
desire she had to quit a way of life so re- 
pugnant to her feelings. 

With the benignant aspect of an angel 


Charlotte Temple. 

of mercy, did Mrs. Beauchamp listen to 
the artless tale; she was shocked to the 
soul to find how large a share La Rue 
had in the seduction of this amiable girl, 
and a tear fell when she reflected that so 
vile a woman was now the wife of her 
father. When Charlotte had finished, 
she gave her a little time to collect her 
scattered spirits, and then asked her if 
she had written to her friends. 

" Oh, yes, madam," said she, " fre- 
quently; but I have broken their hearts; 
they are all either dead, or have cast me 
off forever, for I have never received a 
single line from them." 

" I rather suspect," said Mrs. Beau- 
champ, " they have never had your let- 
ters; but suppose you were to hear from 
them, and they were willing to receive 
you, would you leave this cruel Montra- 
ville, and return to them ? " 

" Would I ? " said Charlotte, clasping 
her hands; "would not the poor sailor 

Charlotte Temple. 159 

tossed on a tempestuous ocean, threat- 
ened every moment with death, gladly 
return to the shore he had left to trust to 
its deceitful calmness? Oh, my dear 
madam, I would return, though to do it 
I were obliged to walk barefooted, and 
beg a scanty pittance of each traveler to 
support my existence. I would endure 
it all cheerfully, could I but once more 
see my dear, blessed mother, hear her 
pronounce my pardon, and bless me be- 
fore I died; but alas! I shall never see 
her more; she has blotted the ungrateful 
Charlotte from her remembrance, and I 
shall sink to the grave loaded with her's 
and my father's curse." 

Mrs. Beauchamp endeavored to soothe 

" You shall write to them again," said 
she, " and I will see that the letter is sent 
by the first packet that sails for Eng- 
land; in the meantime, keep up your 
spirits, and hope for everything by de- 
serving it." 


Charlotte Temple. 

She then turned the conversation, and 
Charlotte, having taken a cup of tea, 
wished her benevolent friend a good- 



When Charlotte returned home she 
endeavored to collect her thoughts, and 
took up a pen, in order to address those 
dear parents, whom, spite of her errors, 
she still loved with the utmost tender- 
ness, but vain was every effort to write 
with the least coherence. 

Her tears fell so fast, they almost 
blinded her, and as she proceeded to de- 
scribe her unhappy situation, she became 
so agitated that she was obliged to give 
over the attempt, and retired to bed, 

Charlotte Temple. 161 

where, overcome with the fatigue her 
mind had undergone, she fell into a 
slumber which greatly refreshed her. 

She arose in the morning with spirits 
more adequate to the painful task she 
had to perform, and after several at- 
tempts, at length concluded the follow- 
ing letter to her mother: 

" New York. 

" To Mrs. Temple: 

" Will my once kind, my ever-beloved 
mother, deign to receive a letter from 
her guilty, but repentant child? or has 
she, justly incensed at my ingratitude, 
driven the unhappy Charlotte from her 

"Alas! shouldst thou even disown me, 
I dare not complain, because I have de- 
served it; but yet, believe me, guilty as 
I am, and cruelly as I have disappointed 
the hopes of the fondest parents that 
ever girl had, even in the moment when, 

162 Charlotte Temple. 

forgetful of my duty, I fled from you 
and happiness — even then I loved you 
most, and my heart bled at the thought 
of what you would suffer. Oh ! never — 
never! while I have existence, will the 
agony of that moment be erased from 
my memory. It seemed like the separa- 
tion of soul and body. 

" What can I plead in excuse for my 
conduct? Alas! nothing. That I loved 
my seducer is but too true. Yet, pow- 
erful as that passion is, when operating 
in a young heart glowing with sensibil- 
ity, it never would have conquered my 
affection for you, my beloved parents, 
had I not been encouraged, nay, urged 
to take the fatal step by one of my own 
sex, who, under the mask of friendship, 
drew me on to ruin. 

" Yet, think not that your Charlotte 
was so lost as to voluntarily rush into a 
life of infamy. 

" Xo, my dear mother, deceived by 

Charlotte Temple. 163 

the specious appearance of my betrayer, 
and every suspicion lulled asleep by the 
most solemn promise of marriage, I 
thought those promises would not so 
easily be fogotten. 

" I never once reflected that the man 
who could stoop to seduction, would not 
hesitate to forsake the wretched object 
of his passion, whenever his capricious 
heart grew weary of her tenderness. 

" When we arrived at this place, I 
vainly expected him to fulfill his engage- 
ments; but was at last fatally convinced 
he never intended to make me his wife, 
or if he had once thought of it his mind 
was now altered. 

" I scorned to claim from his human- 
ity what I could not obtain from his 
love ; I was conscious of having forfeited 
the only gem that could render me re- 
spectable in the eyes of the world 

" I locked my sorrows in my own 
bosom, and bore my injuries in silence. 

164 Charlotte Temple. 

" But how shall I proceed ? 

" This man, this cruel Montraville, for 
whom I sacrificed honor, happiness, and 
the love of my friends, no longer looks 
on me with affection, but scorns the 
credulous girl whom his art has made 

" Could you see me, my dear parents, 
without society, without friends, stung 
with remorse, and (I feel the burning 
blush of shame dye my cheeks while I 
write it) tortured with the pangs of dis- 
appointed love, cut to the soul by the in- 
difference of him, who, having deprived 
me of every other comfort, no longer 
thinks it worth his while to soothe the 
heart where he has planted the thorn of 
never-ceasing regret! 

" My daily employment is to think of 
you and weep, to pray for your happi- 
ness, and deplore my own folly; my 
nights are scarce more happy; for, if by 

Charlotte Temple. 165 

chance I close my weary eyes, and hope 
some small forgetfulness of sorrow, some 
little time to pass in sweet oblivion, 
fancy, still waking, wafts me home to 
you; I see your beloved forms; I kneel 
and hear the blessed words of peace and 
pardon. Ecstatic joy pervades my soul. 
I reach my arms to catch the dear em- 
braces; the motion chases the illusive 
dream; I wake to real misery. 

"At other times I see my father, angry 
and frowning, point to horrid caves, 
where, on the cold, damp ground, in the 
agonies of death, I see my dear mother 
and my revered grandfather. 

" I strive to raise you ; you push me 
from you, and shrieking, cry: i Char- 
lotte, thou hast murdered me.' Horror 
and despair tear every tortured nerve; I 
start and leave my restless bed, weary 
and unrefreshed. 

" Shocking as these reflections are, I 
have yet one more dreadful than the rest. 

166 Charlotte Temple. 

Mother, my dear mother! do not let me 
quite break your heart when I tell you, 
in a few months, in a few months I shall 
bring into the world an innocent witness 
of my guilt. Oh! my bleeding heart. 
I shall bring a poor little helpless creat- 
ure heir to infamy and shame. 

" This alone has urged me once more 
to address you, to interest you in behalf 
of this unborn, and beg you to extend 
your protection to the child of your lost 
Charlotte. For my own part, I have 
written so often, so frequently have 
pleaded for forgiveness, and entreated to 
be received once more beneath the pa- 
ternal roof, that, having received no an- 
swer, nor even one line, I much fear 
you have cast me from you forever. 

" But sure you cannot refuse to pro- 
tect my innocent infant; it partakes not 
of its mother's guilt. Oh! my father, 
oh! my beloved mother, now do I feel 
the anguish inflicted on your hearts re- 
coiling with double force on my own. 

Charlotte Temple. 167 

" If my child should be a girl (which 
Heaven forbid), tell her the unhappy 
fate of her mother, and teach her to 
avoid my errors; if a boy, teach him to 
lament my miseries, but tell him not 
who inflicted them, lest, in wishing to re- 
venge his mother's injuries, he should 
wound the peace of his father. 

"And now, dear friends of my soul, 
kind guardians of my infancy, farewell. 
I feel I never more must hope to see 
you. The anguish of my heart strikes 
at the strings of life, and in a short time 
I shall be at rest. Oh, could I but re- 
ceive your blessing and forgiveness be- 
fore I die, it would smooth my passage 
to the peaceful grave, and be a blessed 
foretaste of a happy eternity. I beseech 
you, curse me not, my adored parents; 
but let a tear of pity and pardon fall to 
the memory of your lost 

" Charlotte." 



While Charlotte was enjoying some 
small degree of comfort in the consoling 
friendship of Mrs. Beauchamp, Montra- 
ville was advancing rapidly in his affec- 
tion toward Miss Franklin. 

Julia was an amiable girl; she saw 
only the fair side of his character; she 
possessed an independent fortune, and 
resolved to be happy with the man of 
her heart, though his rank and fortune 
was by no means so exalted as she had a 
right to expect; she saw the passion 
which Montraville struggled to conceal; 
she wondered at his timidity, but im- 
agined the distance fortune had placed 
between them occasioned his backward- 
ness. She, therefore, made every ad- 


Charlotte Temple. 


vance which strict prudence and a be- 
coming modesty could permit. Mon- 
traville saw with pleasure she was not in- 
different to him; but a spark of honor 
which animated his bosom would not 
suffer him to take advantage of partial- 
ity. He was well acquainted with Char- 
lotte's situation, and he thought there 
would be a double cruelty in forsaking 
her at such a time; and to marry Miss 
Franklin, while honor, humanity, every 
sacred law, obliged him still to protect 
and support Charlotte, was a baseness at 
which his soul shuddered. 

He communicated his uneasiness to 
Belcour; it was the very thing his pre- 
tended friend had wished. 

"And do you really," said he, laugh- 
ing, " hesitate at marrying the lovely 
Julia, and becoming master of her for- 
tune, because a little, foolish, fond girl, 
chose to leave her friends, and run away 
with you to America? Dear Montra- 


Charlotte Temple. 

ville, act more like a man of sense. This 
whining, pining Charlotte, who occa- 
sions you so much uneasiness, would 
have eloped with somebody else, if she 
had not with you." 

" Would to Heaven," said Montra- 
ville, " I had never seen her. My regard 
for her was but the momentary passion of 
desire; but I feel I shall love and revere 
Julia Franklin as long as I live; yet to 
leave poor Charlotte in her present situa- 
tion, would be cruel beyond descrip- 

" Oh, my good, sentimental friend," 
said Belcour, " do you imagine that no- 
body has a right to provide for the brat 
but yourself ? " 

Montraville started. 

" Sure," said he, " you cannot mean to 
insinuate that Charlotte is alse ? " 

"I don't insinuate it," said Belcour; 
" I know it." 

Montraville turned pale as ashes. 

Charlotte Temple. 


" Then there is no faith in woman," 
said he. 

" While I thought you were attached 
to her," said Belcour, with an air of in- 
difference, " I never wished to make you 
uneasy by mentioning her perfidy; but, 
as I know you love and are beloved by 
Miss Franklin, I was determined not to 
let these foolish scruples of honor step 
between you and happiness, or your ten- 
derness for the peace of a perfidious girl 
prevent your uniting yourself to a 
woman of honor." 

" Good heavens ! " said Montraville, 
" what poignant reflections does a man 
endure who sees a lovely woman plunged 
in infamy, and is conscious he was her 
first seducer. But are you certain of 
what you say, Belcour ? " 

" So far," said he, " that I myself have 
received advances from her, which I 
would not take advantage of out of re- 
gard for you. But, hang it, think no 


Charlotte Temple. 

more about her. I dined at Franklin's 
to-day, and Julia bid me seek and bring 
you to tea ; so come along, my lad, make 
good use of the opportunity, and receive 
the gifts of fortune while they are with- 
in your reach." 

Montraville was too much agitated to 
pass a happy evening even in the com- 
pany of Jnlia Franklin. 

He determined to visit Charlotte early 
next morning, tax her with falsehood, 
and take an everlasting leave of her. 
But when the morning came, he was 
commanded on duty, and for six weeks 
was prevented from putting his design 
into execution. 

At length he found an hour to spare, 
and walked out to spend it with Char- 

It was near four o'clock in the after- 
noon when he arrived at her cottage. 

She was not in the parlor, and with- 
out calling her servant, he walked up- 

Charlotte Temple. 173 

stairs, thinking to find her in her bed- 
room. He opened the door, and the 
first object that met his eyes was Char- 
lotte asleep on the bed, and Belcour by 
her side. 

" Death and destruction ! " said he, 
stamping, " this is too much. Rise, vil- 
lain, and defend yourself ! " 

The noise awoke Charlotte. 

Terrified at the furious appearance of 
Montraville, and seeing Belcour with 
him in the chamber, she caught hold of 
his arm, as he stood by the bedside, and 
eagerly asked what was the matter. 

"Treacherous, infamous giil ! " said 
he, " can you ask? How came he here? " 
pointing to Belcour. 

"As Heaven is my witness ! " replied 
she, weeping, " I do not know. I have 
not seen him for these three weeks." 

" Then you confess he sometimes visits 
you ? " 

" He came sometimes by your desire. " 

174 Charlotte Temple. 

" 'Tis false. I never desired him to 
come, and you know I did not. But 
mark me, Charlotte, from this instant 
our connection is at an end. Let Bel- 
cour or any of your favored lovers take 
you and provide for you; I have done 
with you forever ! " 

He was then going to leave her, but 
starting wildly from the bed, she threw 
herself on her knees before him, pro- 
tested her innocence, and intreated him 
not to leave her. 

" Oh, Montraville ! " said she, " kill 
me, for pity's sake, kill me, but do not 
doubt my fidelity. Do not leave me in 
this horrid situation. For the sake of 
your unborn child, oh, spurn not the 
wretched mother from you ! " 

" Charlotte," said he, with a firm 
voice, " I shall take care that neither you 
nor your child want for anything in the 
approaching painful hour, but we meet 
no more." 

Charlotte Temple. 


Pie then endeavored to raise her from 
the ground, but in vain. She clung 
about his knees, entreating him to be- 
lieve her innocent, and conjuring Bel- 
cour to clear up the dreadful mystery. 

Belcour cast upon Montraville a smile 
of contempt. It irritated him almost to 

He broke from the feeble arms of the 
distressed girl. 

She shrieked and fell prostrate on the 

Montraville instantly left the house, 
and returned hastily to the city. 



Unfortunately for Charlotte, about 
three weeks before this unhappy rencon- 
tre, Major Beauchamp, being ordered to 

176 Charlotte Temple. 

Khode Island, his lady had accompanied 
him, so that Charlotte was deprived of 
her friendly advice and consoling so- 

The afternoon on which Montraville 
had visited her she had found herself 
languid and fatigued, and after making 
a very slight dinner, had laid down to 
endeavor to recruit her exhausted spirits, 
and, contrary to her expectations, had 
fallen asleep. 

She had not been long laid down when 
Belcour arrived; for he took every op- 
portunity of visiting her, and striving to 
awaken her resentment against Montra- 

He inquired of the servant where her 
mistress was, and being told she was 
asleep, took up a book to amuse himself. 

Having sat a few minutes, he by 
chance cast his eyes towards the road, 
and saw Montraville approaching. 

He instantly conceived the diabolical 

Charlotte Temple. 


scheme of ruining the unhappy Char- 
lotte in his opinion for ever. 

He therefore stole softly up-stairs, and 
laying himself by her side with the 
greatest precaution, for fear she would 
awake, was in that situation discovered 
by his credulous friend. 

When Montraville spurned the weep- 
ing Charlotte from him, and left her al- 
most distracted with terror and despair, 
Belcour raised her from the floor, and 
leading her down-stairs, assumed the part 
of a tender, consoling friend. 

She listened to the arguments he ad- 
vanced, with apparent composure; but 
this was only the calm of the moment. 

The remembrance of Montraville's re- 
cent cruelty again rushed upon her 
mind; she pushed him from her with 
some violence, crying: 

" Leave me, sir, I beseech you ; leave 
me, for much I fear you have been the 
cause of my fidelity being suspected ; go, 

178 Charlotte Temple. 

leave me to the accumulated miseries my 
own imprudence has brought upon me." 

She then left him with precipitation, 
and retiring to her own apartments, 
threw herself on the bed, and gave vent 
to an agony of grief which it is impossi- 
ble to describe. 

It now occurred to Belcour that she 
might possibly write to Montraville, and 
endeavor to convince him of her inno- 
cence. He was well aware of her pa- 
thetic remonstrances, and sensible of the 
tenderness of Montraville's heart, re- 
solved to prevent any letters reaching 

He therefore called the servant, and 
by the powerful persuasion of a bribe, 
prevailed with her to promise whatever 
letters her mistress might write should 
be sent to him. 

He then left a polite, tender note for 
Charlotte, and returned to New York. 

His first business was to seek Montra- 

Charlotte Temple. 179 

ville, and endeavor to convince him that 
what had happened would ultimately 
tend to his happiness. 

He found him in his apartment, soli- 
tary, pensive, and wrapped in disagree- 
able reflections. 

" Why, how now, whining, pining 
lover ? " said he, clapping him on the 

Montraville started; a momentary 
flush of resentment crossed his cheek, 
but instantly gave way to a death-like 
paleness, occasioned by painful remem- 
brance — remembrance awakened by that 
monitor, whom, though we may in vain 
endeavor, we can never entirely silence. 

" Belcour," said he, " you have in- 
jured me in a tender point." 

" Prithee, J ack," replied Belcour, " do 
not make a serious matter of it; how 
could I refuse the girl's advances? and 
thank Heaven she is not your wife." 

"True," said Montraville; "but she 

180 Charlotte Temple, 


was innocent when I first knew her. It 
was I seduced her, Belcour. Had it not 
been for me, she had still been virtuous 
and happy in the affection and protection 
of her family. 

" Pshaw," replied Belcour, laughing, 
" if you had not taken advantage of her 
easy nature, some other would, and 
where is the difference, pray ? " 

" I wish I had never seen her," cried 
he, passionately, and starting from his 
seat. " Oh, that cursed French wo- 
man ! M added he with vehemence, " had 
it not been for her I might have been 

He paused. 

" With Julia Franklin," said Belcour. 

The name, like a sudden spark of elec- 
tric fire, seemed for a moment to sus- 
pend his faculties — for a moment he was 
transfixed; but recovering, he caught 
Belcour's hand, and cried : 

" Stop — stop ! I beseech you, name 

Charlotte Temple. 181 

not the lovely Julia and the wretched 
Montraville in the same breath. I am 
a seducer — a mean, ungenerous seducer 
of unsuspecting innocence. I dare not 
hope that purity like hers would stoop 
to unite itself with black, premeditated 
guilt. Yet, by heavens! I swear, Bel- 
cour, I thought I never could forsake 
her; but the heart is deceitful, and now 
I can plainly discriminate between the 
impulse of a youthful passion, and the 
pure flame of disinterested affection." 

At that instant Julia Franklin passed 
the window, leaning on her uncle's arm. 
She courtesied as she passed, and with a 
bewitching smile of modest cheerfulness, 

" Do you bury yourselves in the house 
this fine evening, gents ? " 

There was something in the voice, the 
manner, the look, that was altogether ir- 

" Perhaps she wishes my company," 

182 Charlotte Temple. 

said Montraville, mentally, as he snatch- 
ed up his hat. " If I thought she loved 
me, I would confess my errors, and trust 
to her generosity to pity and pardon 

He soon overtook her, and offering 
her his arm, they sauntered to pleasant, 
but unfrequented walks. 

Belcour drew Mr. Franklin on one 
side, and entered into a political dis- 
course. They walked faster than the 
young people, and Belcour, by some 
means, contrived to lose sight of them. 

It was a fine evening in the begin- 
ning of autumn ; the last remains of day- 
light faintly streaked the western sky, 
while the moon with pale and virgin lus- 
ter in the room of gorgeous gold and 
purple, ornamented the canopy of 
heaven with silver, fleecy clouds, which 
now and then half hid her lovely face, 
and, by partly concealing, heightened 
every beauty; the zephyrs whispered 

Charlotte Temple. 183 

softly through the trees, which now be- 
gan to shed their leafy honors; a solemn 
silence reigned; and, to a happy mind, 
an evening such as this would give 
serenity, and calm, unruffled pleasure. 

But to Montraville, while it soothed 
the turbulence of his passions, it 
brought increase of melancholy reflec- 

Julia was leaning on his arm. He 
took her hand in his, and pressing it ten- 
derly, sighed deeply, but continued si- 
lent. Julia was embarrassed; she wished 
to break a silence so unaccountable, but 
was unable. She loved Montraville; 
she saw he was unhappy, and wished to 
know the cause of his uneasiness, but 
that innate modesty which nature had 
implanted in the female breast, pre- 
vented her inquiring. 

" I am bad company, Miss Franklin," 
said he, at last recollecting himself, 
" but I have met with something to-day 

184 Charlotte Temple. 

that has greatly distressed me, and I can- 
not shake off the disagreeable impression 
it has made on my mind." 

" I am sorry/' she replied, " that you 
have any cause of inquietude. I am sure 
if you were as happy as you deserve, and 
as all your friends wish you " 

She hesitated. 

"And might I," replied he, with some 
animation, " presume to rank the amia- 
ble Julia in the number ? " 

"Certainly," said she; "the service 
you have rendered me, the knowledge of 
your worth, all combine to make me es- 
teem you." 

" Esteem, my lovely Julia," said he, 
passionately, " is but a poor, cold word. 
I would if I dared — if I merited your at- 
tention — but no, I must not — honor for- 
bids — I am beneath your notice, Julia; 
I -am miserable and cannot hope to be 

"Alas ! " said Julia, " I pity you." 

Charlotte Temple. 185 

" Oh, thou condescending charmer ! " 
said he, " how that sweet word cheers my 
heart. Indeed, if yon knew all, you 
would pity; but at the same time, I fear 
you would despise me." 

Just then they were joined by Mr. 
Franklin and Belcour. 

It had interrupted an interesting dis- 
course. They found it impossible to 
converse on different subjects, and pro- 
ceeded home in silence. 

At Mr. Franklin's door, Montraville 
again pressed Julia's hand, and, faintly 
articulating " good-night," retired to his 
lodgings, dispirited and wretched, from 
a consciousness that he deserved not the 
affection with which he plainly saw he 
was honored. 



"And where now is our poor Char- 
lotte ? " said Mr. Temple, one evening, 
as the cold blasts of autumn whistled 
rudely over the heath, and the yellow 
appearance of the distant wood, spoke 
the near approach of winter. In vain 
the cheerful fire blazed on the hearth; 
in vain was he surrounded by all the 
comforts of life; the parent was still 
alive in his heart; and when he thought 
that perhaps his once darling child was 
ere this exposed to all the miseries of 
want in a distant land, without a friend 
to soothe and comfort her, without the 
benignant look of compassion to cheer, 
or the angelic voice of pity to pour the 
balm of consolation on her wounded 
heart; when he thought of this, his 


Charlotte lemple. 187 

whole soul dissolved into tenderness,and 
while he wiped the tear of anguish from 
the eye of his patient, uncomplaining 
Lucy, he struggled to suppress the sym- 
pathizing drop that started in his own. 
" Oh! my poor girl ! " said Mrs. Tem- 
ple, " how must she be altered, else sure- 
ly she would have relieved our agoniz- 
ing minds by one line to say she lived— 
to say she had not quite forgot the par- 
ents who almost idolized her." 

" Gracious Heaven ! " said Mr. Tem- 
ple, starting from his seat, " who would 
wish to be a father to experience the 
agonizing pangs inflicted on a parent's 
heart by the ingratitude of a child ? " 
Mrs. Temple wept. Her father took her 
hand. He would have said: "Be com- 
forted, my child ! " but the words died 
on his tongue. The sad silence that 
ensued was interrupted by a loud rap at 
the door. In a moment a servant en- 
tered with a letter in his hand. 


Charlotte Temple. 

Mrs. Temple took it from him; she 
cast her eyes upon the superscription. 
She knew the writing — " 'Tis Char- 
lotte," said she, eagerly breaking the 
seal, " she has not quite forgot us." But 
before she had half gone through the 
contents, a sudden sickness seized her; 
she grew cold and giddy, and putting it 
into her husband's hands, she cried: 
" Eead it; I cannot." 

Mr. Temple attempted to read it 
aloud, but frequently paused to give 
vent to his tears. 

" My poor, deluded child ! " said he. 
when he had finished. 

" Oh, shall we not forgive the dear 
penitent ? " said Mrs. Temple. " We 
must, we will, my love; she is willing to 
return, and 'tis our duty to receive her." 

" Father of mercy," said Mr. El- 
dridge, raising his clasped hands, " let 
me but live once more to see the dear 
wanderer restored to her afflicted par- 

Charlotte Temple. 189 

ents, and take me from this world of sor- 
row whenever it seemeth best to Thy 

" Yes, we will receive her/' said Mr. 
Temple ; " we will endeavor to heal her 
wounded spirit, and speak peace and 
comfort to her agitated soul. I will 
write to her to return immediately. " 

" Oh ! " said Mrs. Temple. " I would, 
if possible, fly to her, support and cheer 
the dear sufferer in the approaching 
hour of distress, and tell her how nearly 
penitence is allied to virtue. Cannot 
we go and conduct her home, my love? " 
continued she, laying her hand on his 
arm. " My father will surely forgive 
our absence if we go to bring home his 

" You cannot go, my Lucy," said Mr. 
Temple ; " the delicacy of your frame 
would but poorly sustain the fatigue of 
a long voyage; but I will go and bring 
the gentle penitent to your arms. We 
may still see many years of happiness." 


Charlotte Temple. 

The struggle in the bosom of Mrs. 
Temple between maternal and conjugal 
tenderness was long and painful. At 
length the former triumphed, and she 
consented that her husband should set. 
forward to Xew York by the first oppor- 
tunity. She wrote to her Charlotte in 
the tenderest, most consoling manner, 
and looked forward to the happy hour 
when she would again embrace her with 
the most animated hope. 



In the meantime the passion Montra- 
ville had conceived for Julia Franklin 
daily increased, and he saw evidently 
how much he was beloved by that 

Charlotte Temple. 191 

amiable girl; he was likewise strongly 
impressed with an idea of Charlotte's 

What wonder, then, if he gave him- 
self up to the delightful sensation which 
pervaded his bosom, and finding no ob- 
stacle arise to oppose his happiness, he 
solicited and obtained the hand of Julia. 

A few days before his marriage, he 
thus addressed Belcour: 

" Though Charlotte, by her aban- 
doned conduct, has thrown herself from 
my protection, I still hold myself bound 
to support her till relieved from her 
present condition, and also to provide for 
the child. I do not intend to see her 
again, but I will place a sum of money 
in your hands which will amply supply 
her with every convenience, but should 
she require more, let her have it, and 
I will see it repaid. I wish I could pre- 
vail upon the poor, deluded girl to re- 
turn to her friends. She was an only 


Charlotte Temple. 

child, and I make no doubt but they 
would joyfully receive her. It would 
shock me greatly to see her leading a life 
of infamy, as I should always accuse 
myself as being the primary cause of her 
errors. If she should choose to remain 
under your protection, be kind to her, 
Belcour, I conjure you. Let not satiety 
prompt you to treat her in such a man- 
ner as may drive her to actions which 
necessity might urge hereto, while her 
better reason disapproves them. She 
shall never want a friend while I live, 
but I never more desire to behold her; 
her presence would always be painful to 
me, and a glance from her eye would 
call the blush of conscious guilt into my 
cheek. I will write her a letter, which 
you may deliver when I am gone, as I 
shall go to St. Eustatia the day after my 
union with Julia, who will accompany 

Belcour promised to fulfil the request 

Charlotte Temple. 193 

of his friend, though nothing was 
further from his intentions than the 
least design of delivering the letter, or 
making Charlotte acquainted with the 
provision Montraville had made for her. 
He was bent upon the complete ruin of 
the unhappy girl, and supposed, by re- 
ducing her to an entire dependence upon 
him, to bring her by degrees to consent 
to gratify his ungenerous passion. 

The evening before the day appointed 
for the nuptials of Montraville and Ju- 
lia, the former retired early to bed, and, 
ruminating on the past scenes of his 
life, suffered the keenest remorse in the 
remembrance of Charlotte's seduction. 

" Poor girl," said he, " I will at least 
write and bid her adieu; I will, too, en- 
deavor to awaken that love of virtue in 
her bosom which her unfortunate at- 
tachment to me has extinguished." 

He took up the pen and began to 
write, but words were denied him. 

194 Charlotte Temple. 

How could he address the woman whom 
he had seduced, and whom, though he 
thought unworthy his tenderness, he 
was about to bid adieu forever ? How 
could he tell her that he was going to 
abjure her, and enter into the most in- 
dissoluble ties with another, and that he 
could not even own the infant which 
she bore as his child ? Several letters 
were begun and destroyed; at length he 
completed the following : 

" To Charlotte : — Though I have 
taken up my pen to address you, my 
poor, injured girl, I feel I am inade- 
quate to the task; yet, however painful 
the endeavor, I could not resolve upon 
leaving you forever without one kind 
line to bid you adieu — to tell you how 
my heart bleeds at the remembrance of 
what you were before you saw the hated 

" Even now imagination paints the 
scene, when torn by contending pas- 

Charlotte Temple. 195 

sions, when struggling between love and 
duty, you fainted in my arms and I 
lifted you into the chaise. 

" I see the agony of your mind, when, 
recovering, you found yourself on the 
road to Portsmouth. 

" But how, my gentle girl, how could 
you, when so justly impressed with the 
value of virtue, how could you, when 
loving as I thought you loved me, yield 
to the solicitation of Belcour ? 

" Oh, Charlotte, conscience tells me 
it was I, villian that I am, who first 
taught you the allurements of guilty 
pleasure; it was I who dragged you 
from the calm repose which innocence 
and virtue ever enjoy, and can I, dare I 
tell you it was not love prompted to the 
horrid deed ? No, thou dear, fallen an- 
gel; believe your repentant Montraville 
when he tells you that the man who 
truly loves will never betray the object 
of his affection. 

196 Charlotte Temple. 

" Adieu, Charlotte ! Could you still 
find charms in a life of unoffending in- 
nocence, return to your parents; you 
shall never want the means of support 
both for yourself and child. Oh ! gra- 
cious Heaven ! may that child be en- 
tirely free from the vice of its father 
and the weakness of its mother. 

" To-morrow — but no, I cannot tell 
you what to-morrow will produce — Bel- 
cour will inform you, he also has cash 
for you, which I beg you will ask for 
whenever you may want it. 

" Once more, adieu ! Believe me, 
could I hear you had returned to your 
friends, and was enjoying that tran- 
quility of which I have robbed you, I 
should be as completely happy as even 
you, in your fondest hours, could wish 
me. But till then a gloom will obscure 
the brightest prospects of 

" Montr aville." 

Charlotte Temple. 197 

After he had sealed this letter he 
threw himself on the bed and enjoyed a 
few hours' repose. 

Early in the morning Belcour tapped 
at his door. 

He arose hastily, and prepared to 
meet his Julia at the altar. 

" This is the letter to Charlotte/' said 
he, giving it to Belcour; " take it to her 
when we are gone to Eustatia; and I 
conjure you, my dear friend, not to use 
any sophistical arguments to prevent her 
return to virtue; but should she incline 
that way, encourage her in the thought 
and assist her to put her design into exe- 


Pensive she mourn'd, and hung her languid head, 
Like a fair lily overcharg'd with dew. 

Charlotte had now been left almost 
three months a prey to her own melan- 
choly reflections — sad companions, in- 
deed; nor did any one break in upon her 
solitude but Belcour, who once or twice 
called to inquire after her health, and 
tell her he had in vain endeavored to 
bring Montraville to hear reason; and 
once, but only once, was her mind 
cheered by the receipt of an affectionate 
letter from Mrs. Beauchamp. 

Often she had written to her per- 
fidous seducer, and with the most per- 
suasive eloquence endeavored to con- 
vince him of her innocence; but these 
letters were never suffered to reach the 
hands of Montraville, or they must, 
though on the eve of his marriage, have 


Charlotte Temple. 199 

prevented liis deserting the wretched 

Real anguish of heart had in a great 
measure faded her charms; her cheeks 
were pale from want of rest, and her 
eyes, by frequent, indeed, almost con- 
tinued weeping, were sunken and heavy. 
Sometimes a gleam of hope would play 
about her heart when she thought of her 

" They cannot, surely," she would 
say, " refuse to forgive me ; or should 
they deny their pardon to me, they will 
not hate my infant on account of its 
mother's errors." 

How often did the poor mourner wish 
for the consoling presence of the benev- 
olent Mrs. Beauchamp. 

" If she were here she would certainly 
comfort me, and soothe the distraction 
of my soul." 

She was sitting one afternoon, 
wrapped in these melancholy reflections, 

200 Charlotte Temple. 

when she was interrupted by the en- 
trance of Belcour. Great as the altera- 
tion Avas which incessant sorrow had 
made on her person, she was still inter- 
esting, still charming, and the unhal- 
lowed flame, which had urged Belcour 
to plant dissension between her and 
Montraville, still raged in his bosom; he 
was determined, if possible, to make her 
his mistress; nay, he had even conceived 
the diabolical scheme of taking her to 
Xew York, and making her appear in 
every public place where it was likely 
she should meet Montraville, that he 
might be a witness of his unmanly 

When he entered the room where 
Charlotte was sitting; he assumed the 
look of tender consolatory friendship. 

" And how does my lovely Char- 
lotte ?" said he, taking her hand; "I 
fear you are not so well as I could wish." 

" I am not well, Mr. Belcour," said 

Charlotte Temple. 201 

she, "very far from it; but the pains and 
infirmities of the body I could easily 
bear, nay, submit to them with patience, 
were they not aggravated by the most 
insupportable anguish of my mind." 

" You are not happy, Charlotte \ " 
said he, with a look of well-dissembled 

" Alas ! " replied she, mournfully 
shaking her head, " how can I be happy, 
deserted as I am, without a friend of my 
own sex to whom I can unburthen my 
full heart; nay, my fidelity suspected by 
the very man for whom I have sacrificed 
everything valuable in life — for whom I 
have made myself a poor, despised crea- 
ture, an outcast from society, an object 
only of contempt and pity ? " 

" You speak too meanly of yourself, 
Miss Temple; there is no one who would 
dare to treat you with contempt. All 
who have the pleasure of knowing you, 
must admire and esteem. You are lone- 


Charlotte Temple. 

ly here, my dear girl; give me leave 
to conduct you to New York, where the 
agreeable society of some ladies I will 
introduce you to will dispel the sad 
thoughts, and I shall again see return- 
ing cheerfulness animate those lovely 

" Oh, never — never ! " cried Char- 
lotte, emphatically. " The virtuous 
part of my sex will scorn me, and I will 
never associate with infamy. No, Bel- 
cour, here let me hide my shame and 
sorrow; here let me spend my few re- 
maining days in obscurity, unknown 
and unpitied; here let me die unla- 
mented,and my name sink into ob- 

Here her tears stopped her utterance. 

Belcour was awed to silence; he dared 
not to interrupt her, and after a mom- 
ment's pause she proceeded : 

" I once had conceived the thought 
of going to New York to seek out the 

Charlotte Temple. 203 

still dear, though cruel, ungenerOtls 
Montraville — to throw myself at his 
feet and entreat his compassion — Heav- 
en knows, not for myself; if I am no 
longer beloved, I will not be indebted 
to his pity to redress my injuries, but I 
would have knelt and entreated him not 

to forsake my poor unborn " 

She could say no more ; a crimson 
glow rushed over her cheeks, and, cover- 
ing her face with her hands, she sobbed 

Something like humanity was awak- 
ened in Belcour's breast by this pathetic 
speech. He arose and walked toward 
the window, but the selfish passion 
which had taken possession of his heart 
soon stifled these finer emotions, and he 
thought, if Charlotte was once convinced 
she had no longer dependence upon 
Montraville, she would more readily 
throw herself upon his protection. De- 
termined, therefore, to inform her of 


Charlotte Temple. 

all that had happened, he again resumed , 
his seat, and, finding she began to be 
composed, inquired if she had ever 
heard from Montraville since the un- 
hapy rencontre in her bed-chamber. 

" Ah, no ! " said she, " I fear I shall 
never hear from him again." 

" I am greatly of your opinion/' said 
Belcour, " for he has been, for some 
time past, greatly attached " 

At the word " attached," a death-like 
paleness overspread the countenance of 
Charlotte, but she applied some harts- 
horn which stood beside her, and Bel- 
cour proceeded : 

" He has been for some time past 
greatly attached to one Miss Franklin, 
a pleasing, lively girl, with a large for- 

" She may be richer, may be hand- 
somer," cried Charlotte, " but cannot 
love him so well. Oh ! may she beware 
of his art, and not trust him too far, as 
I have done." 

Charlotte Temple. 


" He addresses her publicly," said he, 
" and it was rumored they were to be 
married before he sailed for Eustatia, 
whither his company is ordered." 

" Belcour," said Charlotte, seizing 
his hand, and gazing at him earnestly, 
while her pale lips trembled with con- 
vulsive agony. " Oh, tell me, and tell 
me truly, I beseech you, do you think 
he can be such a villian as to marry an- 
other woman, and leave me to die with 
want and misery in a strange land ? 
Tell me what you think; I can bear it 
very well; I will not shrink from this 
heaviest stroke of fate; I have deserved 
my afflictions, and I will endeavor to 
bear them as I ought." 

" I fear," said Belcour, " he can be 
that villain." 

" Perhaps," cried she, eagerly, inter- 
rupting him, " perhaps he is married al- 
ready; come, let me know the worst," 
continued she, with an affected look of 


Charlotte Temple. 

composure; "you need not be afraid; I 
shall not send the fortunate lady a bowl 
of poison ! 99 

" Well, then, my dear girl/' said he, 
deceived by her appearance, " they were 
married on Thursday, and yesterday 
morning they sailed for Eustatia." 

" Married — gone — say you ? " cried 
she, in distracted accents; "what, with- 
out a farewell, without one thought on 
my unhappy situation \ Oh, Montra- 
ville ! may God forgive your perfidy ! " 

She shrieked, and Belcour sprang 
forward just in time to prevent her fall- 
ing to the floor. 

Alarming faintings now succeeded 
each other and she was conveyed to her 
bed, from whence she earnestly prayed 
she might never more arise. 

Belcour stayed with her that night, 
and in the morning found her in a high 

The fits she had been seized with 

Charlotte Temple. 207 

greatly terrified him; and confined as 
she was now to a bed of sickness, she 
was no longer an object of desire; it is 
true, for several days he went constantly 
to see her, but her pale, emaciated ap- 
pearance disgusted him; his visits be- 
came less frequent; he forgot the solemn 
charge given him by Montraville; he 
even forgot the money entrusted to his 
care; and the burning blush of indigna- 
tion and shame tinges my cheek while 
I write it, this disgrace to humanity 
and manhood at length forgot even the 
injured Charlotte; and, attracted by the 
blooming health of a farmer's daughter, 
whom he had seen in his frequent ex- 
cursions to the country, he left the un- 
happy girl to sink unnoticed to the 
grave, a prey to sickness, grief and 
penury, while he, having triumphed 
over the virtue of the artless cottager, 
rioted in all the intemperance of luxury 
and lawless pleasure. 


" Bless my heart ! " cries my young, 
volatile reader, " I shall never have pa- 
tience to get through this volume, there 
are so many ahs and ohs ! so much faint- 
ing, tears and distress. I am sick to 
death of the subject." 

My dear, cheerful, innocent girl (for 
innocent I will suppose you to be, or 
you would acutely feel the woes of Char- 
lotte), did conscience say, thus might it 
have been with me, had not Providence 
interposed to snatch me from destruc- 
tion ? Therefore, my lively, innocent 
girl, I must request your patience. I 
am writing a tale of truth; I mean to 
write it to the heart. But, if perchance 
the heart is rendered impenetrable by 
unbounded prosperity, or a continuance 
in vice, I expect not my tale to please, 
nay, I even expect it will be thrown bv 


Charlotte Temple. 209 

with disgust. But softly, gentle fair 
one, I pray you throw it not aside till 
you have perused the whole. You may 
find something therein to repay you for 
the trouble. Methinks I see a sarcastic 
smile sit on your countenance. 

" And what/' cry you, " does the con- 
ceited author suppose we can glean from 
the pages, if Charlotte is held up as an 
object of terror, to prevent us from fall- 
ing into guilty errors ? Does not La 
Rue triumph in her shame ? and, by 
adding art to guilt, obtain the affection 
of a worthy man and rise to a station 
where she is held with respect, and 
cheerfully received into all companies ? 
What, then, is the moral you would in- 
culcate 1 Would you wish us to think 
that a deviation from virtue, if covered 
by art and hypocrisy, is not an object of 
detestation, but on the contrary, shall 
raise us to fame and honor, while the 
hapless girl who falls a victim to her too 

210 Charlotte Temple. 

great sensibility, shall be loaded with 
ignominy and shame ? " 

]STo, my fair querist, I mean no such 

Remember the endeavors of the 
wicked are often suffered to prosper, 
that in the end their fall may be at- 
tended with more bitterness of heart, 
while the cup of affliction is poured out 
for wise and salutary ends, and they 
who are compelled to drain it even to the 
bitter dregs, often find comfort at the 
bottom ; the tear of penitence blots their 
offence from the book of fate, and they 
rise from the heavy, painful trial, puri- 
fied and fit for a mansion in the king- 
dom of eternity. 

Yes, my young friends, the tear of 
compassion shall fall for the fate of 
Charlotte, while the name of La Rue 
shall be detested and despised. For 
Charlotte the soul melts with sympathy; 
for La Rue it feels nothing but horror 
and contempt. 

Charlotte Temple. 211 

But perhaps your gay hearts would 
rather follow the fortunate Mrs. Cray- 
ton through the scenes of pleasure and 
dissipation in which she was engaged 
than listen to the complaints and mis- 
eries of Charlotte. I will for once oblige 
you, I will for once follow her to mid- 
night revels, balls and scenes of gayety, 
for in such she was constantly engaged. 

I have said her person was lovely ; let 
us add that she was surrounded by splen- 
dor and affluence, and he must know but 
little of the world who can wonder (how- 
ever faulty such a woman's conduct) at 
her being followed by the men and her 
company courted by the women. In 
short, Mrs. Crayton was the universal 
favorite; she set the fashions; she was 
toasted by the gentlemen, and copied by 
the ladies. 

Colonel Crayton was a domestic man 
— could he be happy with such a 
woman ? Impossible. Remonstrance 


Charlotte Temple. 

was vain. He might as well have 
preached to the wind as endeavor to 
persuade her from any action, however 
ridiculous, on which she had set her 
mind; in short, after a little ineffectual 
struggle, he gave up the attempt and 
left her to follow the bent of her own 

What those were, I think the reader 
must have seen enough of her character 
to form a just idea. 

Among the number who paid their 
devotions at her shrine, she singled out 
one, a young ensign of mean birth, in- 
different education, and w T eak intellect. 

How such a man came into the army 
we hardly can account for; and how he 
afterwards rose to posts of honor is like- 
wise strange and wonderful. 

But fortune is blind, and so are those, 
too, frequently, who have the power of 
dispensing her favors; else why do we 
see fools and knaves at the very top of 

Charlotte Temple. 213 

the wheel, while patient merit sinks to 
the extreme of the opposite abyss ? But 
we may form a thousand conjectures on 
this subject, and yet never hit the right. 
Let us, therefore, endeavor to deserve 
her smiles, and whether we succeed or 
not, we shall feel more innate satisfac- 
tion than thousands of those who bask 
in the sunshine of her favor unworthily. 

But to return to Mrs. Crayton. This 
young man, whom I shall distinguish by 
the name of Corydon, was the reigning 
favorite of her heart. He escorted her 
to the play, danced with her at every 
ball, and, when indisposition prevented 
her going out, it was he alone who was 
permitted to cheer the gloomy solitude 
to which she was obliged to confine her- 

Did she ever think of poor Charlotte 'I 
If she did, my clear miss, it was only to 
laugh at the poor girl's want of spirit in 
consenting to be moped up in the conn- 

214 Charlotte Temple. 

try, while Montraville was enjoying all 
the pleasures of a gay, dissipated city. 

When she heard of his marriage, she 
smilingly said : " So there's an end of 
Madame Charlotte's hopes. I wonder 
who will take her now, or what will be- 
come of the little affected prude ? " 

But, as you have led to the subject, I 
think we may as well return to the dis- 
tressed Charlotte, and not, like the un- 
feeling Mrs. Crayton, shut our hearts to 
the call of humanity. 



The strength of Charlotte's constitu- 
tion combated against her disorder, and 
she began slowly to recover, though she 
still labored under a violent depression 

Charlotte Temple. 215 

of spirits. How must that depression be 
decreased, when examining her little 
store, she found herself reduced to one 
solitary guinea, and that during her ill- 
ness the attendance of an apothecary and 
nurse, together wkh many other un- 
avoidable expenses, had involved her in 
debt, from which she saw no method of 
extricating herself. 

As to the faint hope which she had 
entertained of hearing from and being 
relieved by her parents, it now entirely 
forsook her, for it was about four months 
since her letter was dispatched, and she 
had received no answer; she, therefore, 
imagined her conduct had either entirely 
alienated their affection from her, or 
broken their hearts, and she must never 
more hope to receive their blessings. 

Never did any human being wish for 
death with greater fervency or juster 
cause, yet she had too just a sense of the 
duties, of the Christian religion to at- 

216 Charlotte Temple. 

tempt to put a period to her own exist- 

" I have but to be patient a little 
longer," she would cry, and nature, fa- 
tigued and fainting, will throw off this 
heavy load of mortality, and I shall be 
relieved from all my sufferings." 

It was one cold, stormy day in the lat- 
ter end of December, as Charlotte sat by 
a handful of fire, the low state of her 
finances not allowing her to replenish 
her stock of fuel, and prudence teach- 
ing her to be careful of what she had, 
when she was surprised by the entrance 
of a farmer's wife, who, without much 
ceremony, seated herself and began this 
curious harangue : 

" I'm come to see if as how you can 
pay your rent, because as how we hear 
Captain Montable is gone away, and it's 
fifty to one if he b'ant killed afore he 
comes back again, and then, miss or 
ma'am, or whatever you may be, as I 

Charlotte Temple. 217 

was saying to my husband, where are we 
to look for our money ? " 

This was a stroke altogether unex- 
pected by Charlotte. 

She knew so little of the world that 
she had never bestowed a thought on 
the payment of the rent of the house; 
she knew, indeed, that she owed a good 
deal, but this was never reckoned among 
the others; she was thunderstruck; she 
hardly knew what answer to make, yet 
it was absolutely necessary she should 
say something, and judging of the gen- 
tleness of every female disposition by 
her own, she thought the best way to in- 
terest the woman in her favor would be 
to tell her candidly to what a situation 
she was reduced, and how little proba- 
bility there was of her ever paying any- 

Alas ! poor Charlotte; how confined 
was her knowledge of human nature, or 
she would have been convinced that the 

218 Charlotte Temple. 

only way to endure the friendship and 
assistance of your surrounding acquaint- 
ance, is to convince them that you do 
not require, for when once the petrify- 
ing aspect of distress and penury appear, 
whose qualities, like Medusa's head, can 
change to stone all that look upon it; 
when once the Gorgon claims acquaint- 
ance with us, the phantom of friendship, 
that before courted our notice, will van- 
ish into unsubstantial air, and the whole 
world before us appear a barren waste. 

Pardon me, ye dear spirits of benevo- 
lence, whose benign smile and cheerful- 
giving hands have strewed sweet flowers 
on many a thorny path through which 
my wayward fate forced me to pass; 
think not, that in condemning the un- 
feeling texture of the human heart, I 
forget the spring from whence flow all 
the comforts I enjoy; oh, no ! 

I look up to you as the bright constel- 
lations, gathering new splendors from 

Charlotte Temple. 219 

the surrounding darkness; but, ah ! 
while I adore the benignant rays that 
cheered and illumined my heart, I 
mourn that their influence cannot ex- 
tend to all the sons and daughters of 

" Indeed, madam," said poor Char- 
lotte, in a tremulous accent, kk I am at a 
loss what to do. Montraville placed me 
here and promised to defray my ex- 
penses; but he has forgotten his prom- 
ise; he has forsaken me, and I have no 
friend who either has power or will to 
relieve me. Let me hope, as you see my 
unhappy situation, your charity " 

" Charity ! " cried the woman, im- 
patiently interrupting her. " Charity, 
indeed; why, mistress, charity begins at 
home, and I have seven children at 
home — honest, lawful children; and it 
is my duty to keep them; and do you 
think I shall give away my property to 
a nasty, impudent hussy, to maintain 

220 Charlotte Temple. 

her and her bastard ? As I was saying 
to my husband the other day, what will 
this world come to ? Honest women 
are nothing nowadays, while the harlot- 
ings are set up for fine ladies, and look 
on us no more nor the dirt they walk 
upon ; but let me tell you, my fine 
spoken ma'am, I must have my money; 
so seeing as how you can't pay it, why, 
you must troop, and leave all your gim- 
cracks and fal-de-rals behind you. I 
don't ask for more than my right, and 
nobody shall go for to hinder me from 

" Oh, Heaven ! " cried Charlotte, 
clasping her hands, " what will become 
of me ? " 

" Come on ye ! " retorted the unfeel- 
ing wretch. " Why, go to the barrack^ 
and work for a morsel of bread; wash 
and mend the soldiers' clothes, and cook 
their victuals, and not expect to live in 
idleness on honest peoples' means. Oh, 

Charlotte Temple. 


1 wish I could see the day when all such 
cattle were obliged to work hard and eat 
little; it's only what they deserve." 

" Father of mercy ! " cried Charlotte, 
" I acknowledge Thy correction just, but 
prepare me, I beseech Thee, for the por- 
tion of misery Thou may'st please to lay. 
before me." 

" Well," said the woman, " I shall go 
and tell my husband as how you can't 
pay; and so, d'ye see, ma'am, get ready 
to be packing away this very night, for, 
you would not stay another night in this 
house, though I were sure you would lay 
in the street." 

Charlotte bowed her head in silence, 
but the anguish of her heart was too 
great to permit her to articulate a single 


And what is friendship but a name, 

A charm that lulls to sleep — 
A shade that follows wealth and fame, 

But leaves the wretch to weep! 


When Charlotte was left to herself, 
she began to think what course she must 
take, or to whom she should apply, to 
prevent her perishing from want, or 
perhaps that very night falling a victim 
to the inclemency of the season. 

After many perplexed thoughts she 
at last determined to set out for Xew 
York and inquire out Mrs. Crayton, 
from whom she had no doubt but she 
should receive immediate relief as soon 
as her distress was made known. She 
had no sooner formed this resolution 
than she resolved immediately to put it 
into execution; she therefore wrote the 
following little billet to Mrs. Crayton, 
thinking if she should have company 


Charlotte Temple. 223 

with her, it would be better to send in 
the request to see her. 

" To Mrs. Craytox : 

" Madam : — When we left our na- 
tive land, that dear happy land which 
contains all that is dear to the wretched 
Charlotte, our prospects were the same; 
we both, pardon me, madam, if I say, 
we both too easily followed the impulses 
of our treacherous hearts, and trusted 
our happiness on a tempestuous ocean, 
where mine has been wrecked and lost 
forever; you have been more fortunate 
— you are united to a man of honor and 
humanity, united by the most sacred 
ties, respected, esteemed, admired, and 
surrounded by innumerable blessings of 
which I am bereaved — enjoying those 
pleasures which have fled my bosom, 
never to return, alas! sorrow and deep 
regret have taken their place. 

" Behold me, madam, a poor, forsaken 


Charlotte Temple. 

wanderer, who has not where to lay her 
weary head, wherewith to supply the 
wants of nature, or to shield her from in- 
clemency of the weather. 

" To you I sue, to you I look for pity 
and relief. I ask not to be received as 
an intimate or equal; only for charity's 
sweet sake, receive me into your hos- 
pitable mansion, allot me the meanest 
apartment in it, and let me breathe out 
my soul in prayers for your happiness; 
I cannot, I feel I cannot bear up under 
the accumulated woes that bear in upon 
me; but oh, my dear madam, for the 
love of Heaven, suffer me not to expire 
in the street; and when I am at peace, 
as soon I shall be, extend your compas- 
sion to my poor, helpless offspring, 
should it please Heaven that it survive 
its unhappy mother. 

"A gleam of joy breaks in on my be- 
nighted soul, while I reflect that you can- 
not, will not, refuse your protection to 
the heart-broken Charlotte." 

Charlotte Temple. 225 

When Charlotte had finished this let- 
ter, late as it was in the afternoon, and 
though the snow began to fall very fast, 
she tied up a few necessaries, which she 
had prepared against her expected con- 
finement, and terrified lest she should be 
again exposed to the insults of her bar- 
barous landlady, more dreadful to her 
wounded spirit than either storm or 
darkness, she set forward for New York. 

It may be asked by those who, in a 
work of this kind, love to cavil at every 
trifling omission, whether Charlotte did 
not possess any valuable of which she 
could have disposed, and by that means 
have supported herself till Mrs. Beau- 
champ's return, when she would have 
been certain of receiving every tender 
attention which compassion and friend- 
ship could dictate; but let me entreat 
these wise, penetrating gentleman to re- 
flect, that when Charlotte left England, 
it was in such haste that there was no 


Charlotte Temple. 

time to purchase anything more than 
what was wanted for immediate use upon 
the voyage; and after the arrivel at New 
York, Montraville's affection soon be- 
gan to decline, so that her wardrobe con- 
sisted only of necessaries; and as to the 
baubles, with which fond lovers often 
load their mistresses, she possessed not 
one, except a plain gold locket of small 
value, which contained a lock of her 
mother's hair, and which the great ex- 
tremity of want could not have forced 
her to part with. 

The distance from the house which 
our suffering heroine occupied, to New 
York, was not very great; yet the snow 
fell so fast, and the cold was so intense, 
that, being unable from her situation to 
walk quick, she found herself almost 
sinking with cold and fatigue before she 
reached the town; her garments, which 
were merely suitable to the summer sea- 
son, being an undress robe of plain white 

Charlotte Temple. 227 

muslin, were wet through; and a thin, 
black coat and bonnet, very improper 
habiliments for such a climate, but 
poorly defended her from the cold. 

In this situation she reached the city, 
and inquired of a foot-soldier whom she 
met, the way to Colonel Crayton's. 

" Bless you, my sweet lady/' said the 
soldier, with a voice and look of compas- 
sion, " I will show you the way with all 
my heart; but if you are going to make 
a petition to Madame Crayton, it is all to 
no purpose, I assure you; if you please, 
I will conduct you to Mr. Franklin's, 
though Miss Julia is married and gone, 
yet the old gentleman is very good." 

"Julia Franklin," said Charlotte; 
" is she not married to Montraville ? " 

" Yes," replied the soldier, " and may 
God bless them, for a better officer never 
lived, he is so good to us all; and as to 
Miss J ulia, all the poor folks almost wor- 
ship her." 

228 Charlotte Temple. 

" Gracious Heavens ! " cried Char- 
lotte, " is Montraville unjust to none but 

me ?" 

The soldier now showed her Colonel 
Crayton's door, and with a beating heart 
she knocked for admission. 



"When the door was opened, Char- 
lotte, in a voice rendered scarcely artic- 
ulate, through cold and the extreme agi- 
tation of her mind, demanded whether 
Mrs. Crayton was at home. 

The servant hesitated; he knew that 
his lady was engaged at a game of pic- 
quet with her dear Coryclon, nor could 
he think she would like to be disturbed 
by a person whose appearance spoke of 

Charlotte Temple. 229 

so little consequence as Charlotte; yet 
there was something in her countenance 
that rather interested him in her favor, 
and he said his lady was engaged; but if 
she had any particular message he would 
deliver it. 

" Take up this letter/' said Charlotte, 
" tell her the unhappy writer of it waits 
in the hall for an answer." 

The tremulous accent, the tearful eye, 
must have moved any heart not com- 
posed of adamant. 

The man took the letter from the poor 
suppliant, and hastily ascended the stair- 

"A letter, madam," said he, presenting 
it to his lady ; " an immediate answer is 

" Mrs. Crayton glanced her eyes care- 
lessly over the contents. " What stuff 
is this ? " cried she, haughtily; " have I 
not told you a thousand times that I 
would not be plagued with beggars or 

230 Charlotte Temple. 

petitions from people one knows nothing 
about? Go tell the woman I can't do 
anything in it. I'm sorry, but one can't 
relieve everybody." 

The servant bowed, and heavily re^ 
turned with this chilling message to 

"Surely," said she, "Mrs. Crayton 
has not read my letter. Go, my friend, 
pray, go back to her; tell her it is Char- 
lotte Temple who requests beneath her 
hospitable roof to find shelter from the 
inclemency of the season." 

" Prithee, don't plague me, man," 
cried Mrs. Crayton, impatiently, as the 
servant advanced something in behalf of 
the unhappy girl. " I tell you I don't 
know her." 

" Not know me ! " cried Charlotte, 
rushing into the room (for she had fol- 
lowed the man up-stairs), " not know me 
— not remember the injured Charlotte 
Temple, who, but for you, perhaps 

Charlotte Temple. 231 

might still have been innocent, still have 
been happy! Oh, La Kue, this is be- 
yond everything I conld have believed 

"Upon. my honor, miss," replied the 
unfeeling woman with the utmost 
effrontery, " this is a most unaccountable 
address — it is beyond my comprehen- 
sion. John," continued she, turning to 
the servant, " the young woman is cer- 
tainly out of her senses ; do pray take her 
away, she terrifies me to death." 

" Oh, God ! " cried Charlotte, clasp- 
ing her hands in an agony, " this is too 
much ; what will become of me ! But I 
will not leave you, they shall not tear 
me from you; here on my knees I con- 
jure you to save me from perishing in 
the street; if you really have forgotten 
me, O, for charity's sweet sake, this 
night let me be sheltered from the win- 
ter's piercing cold." 

The kneeling figure of Charlotte, in 


Charlotte Temple. 

her affecting situation, might have 
moved the heart of a stone to compas- 
sion; but Mrs. Cray ton remained in- 

In vain did Charlotte recount the time 
they had known each other at Chiches- 
ter; in vain mention their being in the 
same ship; in vain were the names of 
Montraville and Belcour mentioned. 

Mrs. Crayton could only say she was 
sorry for her imprudence, but could not 
think of having her own reputation en- 
dangered by encouraging a woman of 
that kind in her own house; besides, she 
did not know what trouble and expense 
she might bring upon her husband. by 
giving shelter to a woman in her situa- 

" I can at least die here," said Char- 
lotte. " I feel I cannot long survive 
this dreadful conflict. Father of mercy! 
here let me finish my existence." 

Her agonizing sensations overpowered 
her ? and she fell senseless on the floor. 

Charlotte Temple. 233 

" Take her away/' said Mrs. Crayton; 
" she will really frighten me into hys- 
terics; take her away, I say, this in- 

"And where must I take the poor 
creature ? " said the servant, with a voice 
and look of compassion. 

"Anywhere," cried she, hastily, " only 
don't let me ever see her again. I de- 
clare she has flurried me so, I sha'n't be 
myself again this fortnight." 

John 5 assisted by his fellow-servant, 
raised and carried her down-stairs. 

" Poor soul," said he, " you shall not 
lie in the street this night. I have a bed 
and a poor little hovel, where my wife 
and little ones rest them; but they shall 
watch to-night and you shall be shel- 
tered from danger." 

They placed her in a chair, and the 
benevolent man, assisted by one of his 
comrades, carried her to the place where 
his wife and children lived. 

234 Charlotte Temple. 

A surgeon was sent for; he bled her; 
she gave signs of returning life, and be- 
fore dawn she gave birth to a female in- 

After this event, she lay for some 
hours in a kind of stupor: and, if at any 
time she spoke, it was with a quickness 
and incoherence that plainly evinced the 
deprivation of reason. 



The reader of sensibility may perhaps 
be astonished to find Mrs. Crayton could 
so positively deny any knowledge of 
Charlotte; it is, therefore, but just that 
her conduct should in some measure be 
accounted for. 

She had ever been fully sensible of the 

Charlotte Temple. 235 

superiority of Charlotte's sense and vir- 
tue; she was conscious that she never 
would have swerved her rectitude had it 
not been for her bad precepts and worse 
example. These were things as yet un- 
'known to her husband: and she wished 
not to have that part of her conduct ex- 
posed to him, as she had great reason to 
fear she had already lost considerable 
part of that power she once maintained 
over him. 

She trembled while Charlotte was in 
the house, lest the colonel should return; 
she perfectly well remembered how 
much he seemed interested in her favor, 
while on their passage from England, 
and made no doubt but, should he see 
her in her present distress, he would of- 
fer her an asylum, and protect her to the 
utmost of his power. 

In that case, she feared the unguard- 
ed nature of Charlotte might discover to 
the colonel the part she had taken in the 

236 Charlotte Temple. 

unhappy girl's elopement, and she well 
knew the contrast between her own and 
Charlotte's conduct, would make the 
former appear in no very respectable 

Had she reflected properly, she would 
have afforded the poor girl protection, 
and, by enjoining her silence, insured 
it by acts of repeated kindness, but vice 
in general blinds its votaries, and they 
discover their real characters to the world 
when they are the most studious to pre- 
serve appearances. 

Just so it happened with Mrs. Cray- 
ton; her servants made no scruple of 
mentioning the cruel conduct of their 
lady to a poor distressed lunatic who 
claimed her protection; everyone joined 
in reprobating her inhumanity, nay, 
even Cory don thought she might at least 
have ordered her to be taken care of, but 
he dared not even hint it to her, for he 
lived but in her smiles, and drew from 

Charlotte Temple. 


her lavish fondness large sums to sup- 
port an extravagance to which the state 
of his own finances were very inade- 
quate. It cannot therefore be supposed 
that he wished Mrs. Crayton to be very 
liberal in her bounty to the afflicted 
suppliant. Yet vice had not so entirely 
seared over his heart but the sorrows of 
Charlotte could find a vulnerable part. 

Charlotte had now been three days 
with her humane preservers, but she was 
totally insensible of everything; she 
raved incessantly for Montraville and 
her father; she was not conscious of be- 
ing a mother, nor took the least notice 
of her child, except to ask whose it was, 
and why it was not carried to its par- 

" Oh ! " said she one day, starting up 
on hearing the infant cry, " why will 
you keep that child here? I am sure 
you w T ould not if you knew how hard it 
was for a mother to be parted from her 

238 Charlotte Temple. 

infant; it is like tearing the cords of life 

" Oh ! could you see the horrid sight 
I now behold — there — there stands my 
dear mother, her poor bosom bleeding at 
every vein ; her gentle, affectionate heart 
torn in a thousand pieces, and all for the 
loss of a ruined, ungrateful child. 

" Save me — save me — from her 
frown! I dare not — indeed I dare not 
speak to her ! " 

Such were the dreadful images that 
haunted her distracted mind, and nature 
was sinking fast under the dreadful mal- 
ady which medicine had no power to re- 

The surgeon who attended her' was a 
humane man, who exerted his utmost 
abilities to save her; but he saw she was 
in want of many necessaries and com- 
forts which the poverty of her hospitable 
hosts rendered them unable to provide: 
he therefore determined to make her sit- 

Charlotte Temple. 239 

uation known to some of the officers, 
ladies, and endeavor to make a collection 
for her relief. 

When he returned home after making 
this resolution, he found a message from 
Mrs. Beauchamp, who had just arrived 
from Rhode Island, requesting he would 
call and see one of her children, who was 
very unwell. 

" I do not know," said he, as he was 
hastening to obey the summons, " I do 
not know a woman to whom I could ap- 
ply with more hope of success than Mrs. 
Beauchamp. I will endeavor to inter- 
est her in this poor girl's behalf; she 
wants the soothing balm of friendly con- 
solation; we may perhaps save her; we 
will try, at least." 

"And where is she? " cried Mrs. Beau- 
champ, when he prescribed something 
for the child, and told his little pathetic 
tale, " where is she, sir? we will go to her 
immediately. Heaven forbid that I 

240 Charlotte Temple. 

should be deaf to the calls of humanity. 
Come, we will go this instant/' 

Then seizing the doctor's arm, they 
sought the habitation of the dying Char- 



When Mrs. Beauchamp entered the 
apartment of the poor sufferer, she 
started back in horror. On a wretched 
bed, without hangings and poorly sup- 
plied with covering, lay the emaciated 
figure of what still retained the sem- 
blance of a lovely woman, though sick- 
ness had so altered her features that Mrs. 
Beauchamp had not the least recollection 
of her person. 

Charlotte Temple. 241 

In a corner of a room stood a woman 
washing, and shivering over a small fire, 
two healthy, but half-naked children. 
The infant was asleep beside its mother, 
and on a chair by the bedside stood a 
porringer and wooden spoon containing 
a little gruel, and a tea-cup with about 
two spoonsful of wine in it. 

Mrs. Beauchamp had never before be- 
held such a scene of poverty; she shud- 
dered involuntarily, and exclaiming, 
" Heaven preserve us ! " leaned on the 
back of the chair, ready to sink to the 

The doctor repented having so pre- 
cipitately brought her into his affecting 
scene; but there was no time for apol- 

Charlotte caught the sound of her 
voice, and starting almost out of bed, ex- 

"Angel of peace and mercy, art thou 
come to deliver me? Oh, I know you 


Charlotte Temple. 

are, for whenever you were near me I 
felt eased of half my sorrows; but you 
don't know me, nor can I, with all the 
recollection that I am mistress of, remem- 
ber your name just now ; but I know that 
benevolent countenance and the soft- 
ness of that voice, which has so often 
comforted the wretched Charlotte." 

Mrs. Beauchamp had, during the time 
Charlotte was speaking, seated herself on 
the bed; and taking one of her hands, 
she looked at her attentively, and at the 
name of Charlotte she perfectly con- 
ceived the whole affair. A faint sick- 
ness came over her. 

" Gracious Heaven ! " said she, " is 
this possible ? " and bursting into tears, 
she reclined the burning head of Char- 
lotte on her own bosom, and folding her 
arms about her, wept over her in silence. 

" Oh," said Charlotte, " you are very 
good to weep thus for me; it is a long 
time since I shed a tear for myself; my 

Charlotte Temple. 243 

head and heart are both on fire; but these 
tears of yours seem to cool and refresh 

" Oh, now I remember you said you 
would send a letter to my poor father; 
do you think he ever received it ? or per- 
haps you may have brought me an an- 
swer; why don't you speak, madam ? " 

" Does he say I may go home? Well, 
he is very good; I shall soon be ready." 

She then made an effort to get out of 
bed; but being prevented, her frenzy 
again returned, and she raved with the 
greatest wildness and incoherence. 

Mrs. Beauchamp, finding it was im- 
possible for her to be removed, contented 
herself with ordering the apartment to 
be made more comfortable, and procur- 
ing a proper nurse for both mother and 
child; and having learned the particu- 
lars of Charlotte's fruitless application 
to Mrs. Crayton from honest John, she 
amply rewarded him for his benevolence, 

244 Charlotte Temple. 

and returned home with a heart op- 
pressed with many painful sensations, 
but yet rendered easy by the reflection 
that she had performed her duty towards 
a distressed fellow-creature. 

Early next morning she again visited 
Charlotte, and found her tolerably com- 
posed; she called her by name, thanked 
her for her goodness, and when her child 
was brought to her, pressed it in her 
arms, wept over it, and called it the off- 
spring of disobedience. 

Mrs. Beauchamp was delighted to see 
her so much amended, and began to hope 
she might recover, and in spite of her 
former errors, become a useful and re- 
spectable member of society; but the ar- 
rival of the doctor put an end to these 
delusive hopes; he said nature was mak- 
ing her last effort, and a few hours would 
most probably consign the unhappy girl 
to her kindred dust. 

Being asked how she found herself, 
she replied: 

Charlotte Temple. 


" Why, better, much better, doctor. X 
hope now I have but little more to suffer. 
I had last night a few hours' sleep, 
and when I awoke recovered the whole 
power of recollection. I am quite sen- 
sible of my weakness; I feel I have but 
little longer to combat with the shafts of 
affliction. I have an humble confidence 
in the mercy of Him who died to save 
the world, and trust that my sufferings 
in this state of mortality, joined to my 
unfeigned repentance, through His 
mercy, have blotted my offences from 
the sight of my offended Maker. I have 
but one care — my poor infant! Father 
of mercy ! " continued she, raising her 
eyes, " of thy infinite goodness, grant 
that the sins of the parent be not visited 
on the unoffending child. May those 
who taught me to despise Thy laws be 
forgiven; lay not my offences to their 
charge I beseech Thee; and oh! shower 
the choicest of Thy blessings on those 


Charlotte Temple. 

.whose pity has soothed the afflicted 
heart, and made easy even the bed of 
pain and sickness." 

She was exhausted by this fervent ad- 
dress to the throne of mercy, and though 
her lips still moved, her voice became 
inarticulate; she lay for some time, as it 
were, in a doze, and then recovering, 
faintly pressed Mrs. Beauchamp's hand, 
and then requested that a clergyman 
might be sent for. 

On his arrival, she joined fervently in 
the pious office, frequently mentioning 
her ingratitude to her parents as what 
lay most heavy at her heart. 

When she had performed the last 
solemn duty, and was preparing to lie 
down, a little bustle outside the door oc- 
casioned Mrs. Beauchamp to open it and 
inquire the cause. 

A man, in appearance about forty, 
presented himself, and asked for Mrs. 

Charlotte Temple. 247 

" That is my name, sir/' said she. 

" Oh, then, my dear madam," cried 
he, " tell me where I may find my poor, 
ruined, but repentant child." 

Mrs. Beauchamp was surprised and 
much affected; she knew not what to 
say; she foresaw the agony this interview 
would occasion Mr. Temple, who had 
just arrived in search of Charlotte, and 
yet was sensible that the pardon and 
blessing of the father would soften even 
the agonies of death to the daughter. 

She hesitated. 

" Tell me, madam," cried he, wildly, 
"tell me, I beseech thee, does she live? 
Shall I see my darling once again? Per- 
haps she is in this house. Lead — lead 
me to her, that I may bless her, and then 
lie down and die." 

The ardent manner in which he ut- 
tered these words occasioned him to raiso 
his voice. 

It caught the ear of Charlotte; she 

248 Charlotte Temple. 

knew the beloved sound, and uttering a 
loud shriek, she sprang forward as Mr. 
Temple entered the room. 

" My adored father ! " 

« My long lost child ! " 

Mature could support no more, and 
they both sank lifeless into the arms of 
the attendants. 

Charlotte was again put into bed, and 
a few moments restored Mr. Temple ; but 
to describe the agonies of his sufferings 
is past the power of any one. Though 
we can readily conceive, we cannot de- 
lineate the dreadful scene. 

Every eye gave testimony of what 
each other felt — but all were silent. 

When Charlotte recovered, she found 
herself supported in her father's arms. 

She cast upon him a most impressive 
look, but was unable to speak. 

A reviving cordial was administered. 

She then asked in a low voice for her 

Charlotte Temple. 249 

It was brought to her; she put it in 
her father's arms. 

"Protect her," said she, "and bless 
your dying " 

Unable to finish the sentence, she sunk 
back on her pillow; her countenance was 
serenely composed; she regarded her 
father as he pressed the infant to his 
breast, with a steadfast look; a sudden 
beam of joy passed across her languid 
features: she raised her eyes to heaven — 
and then closed them forever. 



In the meantime, Montraville had re- 
ceived orders to return to Xew York, ar- 
rived, and having some feeling of com- 
passionate tenderness for the woman 

250 Charlotte Temple. 

whom he regarded as brought to shame 
by himself he went in search of Belcour, 
to inquire whether she was safe, and 
whether the child lived. 

He found him immersed in dissipa- 
tion, and could gain no other intelli- 
gence than that Charlotte had left him, 
and that he knew not what had become 
of her. 

" I cannot believe it possible/' said 
Montraville, " that a mind once so pure 
as Charlotte Temple's should .so sudden- 
ly become the mansion of vice. Be- 
ware, Belcour," continued he, " beware 
if you have dared to behave either un- 
justly or dishonorably to that poor girl, 
your life shall pay the forfeit; I will 
avenge her cause." 

He immediately went into the coun- 
try, to the house where he had left Char- 
lotte. It was desolate. 

After much inquiry he at length 
found the servant girl who had lived 
with her. 

Charlotte Temple. 251 

From her he learned the misery Char- 
lotte had endured from the complicated 
evils of illness, poverty, and a broken 
heart, and that she had set out for "New 
York on a cold winter's evening; but she 
could inform him no further. 

Tortured almost to madness by this 
shocking account, he returned to the 
city, but before he reached it, the even- 
ing was drawing to a close. 

In entering the town, he was obliged 
to pass several little huts, the residences 
of poor women, who supported them- 
selves by washing the clothes of the 
officers and soldiers. 

It was nearly dark; he heard from a 
neighboring steeple a solemn toll that 
seemed to say, some poor mortal was go- 
ing to their last mansion; the sound 
struck on the heart of Montraville, and 
he involuntarily stopped, when from one 
of the houses he saw the appearance of a 

252 Charlotte Temple. 

Almost unknowing what he did, he 
followed at a small distance; and as they 
let the coffin into the grave, he inquired 
of a soldier, who stood by, and had just 
wiped off a tear that did honor to his 
heart, who it was that was just buried. 

"An' please your honor," said the 
man, " 'tis a poor girl that was brought 
from her friends by a cruel man, who 
left her when she was big with a child 7 
and married another." 

Montraville stood motionless, and the 
man proceeded. 

" I met her myself, not a fortnight 
since, one night, all cold and wet in the 
street; she went to Madam Crayton's, 
but she would not take her in and so the 
poor thing went raving mad." 

Montraville could bear no more; he 
struck his hands against his forehead 
with violence, and exclaiming, " poor 
murdered Charlotte ! " ran with pre- 
cipitation towards the place where they 
were heaping the earth on her remains. 

Charlotte Temple. 


"Hold — hold! one moment/' said he, 
" close not the grave of the injured Char- 
lotte Temple, till I have taken ven- 
geance on her murderer." 

" Rash young man," said Mr. Temple, 
" who art thou that thus disturbest the 
last mournful rites of the dead, and 
rudely breakest in upon the grief of an 
afflicted father ? " 

" If thou art the father of Charlotte 
Temple," said he, gazing at him with 
mingled horror and amazement — " if 
thou art her father — I am Montraville." 

Then, falling on his knees, he con- 
tinued: "Here is my bosom. I bare it 
to receive the stroke I merit. Strike — 
strike now, and save me from the misery 
of reflection." 

"Alas !•" said Mr. Temple, "if thou 
wert the seducer of my child, thy own 
reflections be thy punishment. I wrest 
not the power from the hand of Om- 
nipotence. Look on that little heap of 

254 Charlotte Temple. 

earth; there hast thou buried the only 
joy of a fond father. Look at it often; 
and may thy heart feel such sorrow as 
shall merit the mercy of Heaven. " 

He turned from him, and Montra- 
ville, starting up from the ground where 
he had thrown himself, and that instant 
remembering the perfidy of Belcour, 
flew like lightning to his lodgings. Bel- 
cour was intoxicated; Montraville im- 
petuous; they fought, and the sword of 
the latter entered the heart of his ad- 

He fell, and expired almost instantly. 
Montraville had received a slight wound, 
and, overcome with the agitation of his 
mind, and loss of blood, was carried in a 
state of insensibility to his distracted 

A dangerous illness and obstinate de- 
lirium ensued, during which he raved 
incessantly for Charlotte, but a strong 

Charlotte Temple. 


constitution, and the tender assiduities 
of Julia, in time overcame the disorder. 

He recovered, but to the end of his 
life was subject to severe fits of melan- 
choly, and while he remained in Xew 
York, frequently retired to the church- 
yard, where he wept over the grave, and 
regretted the untimely fate of the lovely 
Charlotte Temple. 



Shortly after the interment of his 
daughter, Mr. Temple, with his dear lit- 
tle charge and her nurse, set forward for 

It would be impossible to do justice to 
the meeting-scene between him and his 
Lucy, and her aged father. Every 

256 Charlotte Temple. 

heart of sensibility can easily conceive 
their feelings. 

After the first tumult of grief was 
subsided, Mrs. Temple gave up the chief 
of her time to her grandchild, and as she 
grew up and improved, began almost to 
fancy she again possessed her Charlotte. 

It was about ten years after these 
painful events, that Mr. and Mrs. Tem- 
ple, having buried their father, were 
obliged to come to London on particular 
business, and brought the little Lucy 
with them. 

They had been walking one evening, 
when, on their return they found a poor 
wretch sitting on the steps of the door. 

She attempted to rise as they ap- 
proached, but from extreme weakness 
was unable, and after several fruitless 
efforts, fell back in a fit. 

Mr. Temple was not one of those men 
who stand to consider whether by assist- 
ing an object of distress they shall not 

Charlotte Temple. 


inconvenience themselves, but, instigated 
by a noble, feeling heart, immediately 
ordered her to be carried into the house 
and proper restoratives applied. 

She soon recovered, and fixing her eye 
on Mrs. Temple, cried: 

" You know not, madam, what you 
do; you know not whom you are reliev- 
ing, or you would curse me in the bitter- 
ness of your heart. Come not near me, 
madam, I shall contaminate you. I am 
the viper that stung your peace. I am 
the woman who turned the poor Char- 
lotte out to perish in the street. Heaven 
have mercy! I see her now,' continued 
she, looking at Lucy ; " such — such was 
the fair bud of innocence that my vile 
arts blasted ere it was half blown." 

It was in vain that Mr. and Mrs. Tem- 
ple entreated her to be composed and 
take some refreshment. 

She only drank half a glass of wine, 
and then told them she had been sepa- 


Charlotte Temple. 

rated from her husband seven years, the 
chief of which she passed in riot, dissi- 
pation and vice, till, overtaken by pov- 
erty and sickness, she had been reduced 
to part with every valuable, and thought 
only of ending her life in prison, when 
a benevolent friend paid her debts and 
released her; but that, her illness in- 
creasing, she had no possible means of 
supporting herself, and her friends were 
weary of relieving her. " I have fasted, " 
said she, " two days, and last night laid 
my aching head on the cold pavement; 
indeed, indeed, it was but just that I 
should experience those miseries myself, 
which I unfeelingly inflicted on others." 

Greatly as Mr. Temple had reason to 
detest Mrs. Crayton, he could not be- 
hold her in this distress without some 
emotions of pity. 

He gave her shelter that night be- 
neath his hospitable roof, and the next 
day got her admission into a hospital, 

Charlotte Temple. 


where, having lingered a few weeks, she 
died, a striking example that vice, how- 
ever prosperous in the beginning, in the 
end leads on to misery and shame. 

[the end.] 



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114. LIGHT OF ASIA.— Arnold. 

115. LIGHT THAT FAILED, THE.— Kipling. 

116. LITTLE LAME PRINCE.— Mulock. 




120. LUCILE.-Meredith. 

126. MAGIC NUTS, THE.— Molesworth. 

127. MANON LESCAUT.— Prevost. 

128. MARMION.— Scott. 



131. MINE OWN PEOPLE.— Kipling. 


133. MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE.— Hawthorne 

134. MULVANEY STORIES.— Kipling. 


WORLD.— Drummond. 



145. OLD CHRISTMAS.— Irving. 

146. OUTRE-MER.— Longfellow. 

150. PARADISE LOST.— Milton. 


152. PAUL AND VIRGINIA.— Sainte Pierre. 

153. PETER SCHLEMIHL.— Chamisso. 

154. PHANTOM RICKSHAW.— Kipling. 




Vademecum Series— Continued. 


157. PLEASURES OF LIFE.— Lubbock. 


159. POE'S POEMS. 



161. PRINCESS AND MAUD. — Tennyson. 

162. PRUE AND I.-Curtis. 

169. QUEEN OF THE AIR.— Ruskin. 

172. RAB AND HIS FRIENDS. — Brown. 


174. REVERIES OF A BACHELOR.— Mitchell. 

175. RIP VAN WINKLE.— Irving. 





183. SARTOR RESARTUS.— Carlyle. 

184. SCARLET LETTER, THE.— Hawthorne. 

185. SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.— Sheridan. 


187. SESAME ANL LILIES.— Ruskin. 


189. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.— Goldsmith. 

190. SILAS MARNER.— Eliot. 

191. SKETCH BOOK, THE.— Irving. 

192. SNOW IMAGE, THE.— Hawthorne. 


200. TANGLEWOOD TALES.— Hawthorne. 


202. TARTARIN ON THE ALPS.— Daudet. 

203. TEN NIGHTS IN A BAR-ROOM.— Arthur. 

204. THINGS WILL TAKE A TURN.-Harraden. 




208. TREASURE ISLAND.— Stevenson. 

209. TWICE TOLD TALES.— Hawthorne. 


217. UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.— Stowe. 

218. UNDINE.— Fouque. 

TERRIER.— Marsh. 



Vademecum Series— Continued. 

223. VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.— Goldsmith. 

226. WALDEN.— Thoreau. 

227. WATER BABIES. — Kingsley. 

228. WEIRD TALES.— Poe. 

229. WHAT IS ART?— Tolstoi. 



232. WINDOW IN THRUMS.— Barrie. 

233. WOMAN'S WORK IN THE HOME.— Farrar. 

234. WONDER BOOK, A. — Hawthorne. 


244. ZOE.— By author of " Laddie," etc. 


Full White Vellum, handsome new mosaic design in 
gold and colors, gold edges, Boxed, 50 cents. 

1. ABIDE IN CHRIST.— Murray. 



4. BEST THOUGHTS.— From Henry Drummond* 





9. CHRISTIAN LIFE.— Oxenden. 




13. COMING TO OHRIST.— Havergal. 


15. DAY 7 BREAKETH, THE.— Shugert. 

16. DAYS OF GRACE.— Murray. 


18. EVENING THOUGHTS.— Havergal. 


20. HOLY IN CHRIST.— Murray. 



— Gladstone. 



Devotional Series— Continued. 



25. JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S TALK.— Spurgeon. 

26. KEPT FOR THE MASTER'S USE.— Havergal. 


28. LET US FOLLOW HIM.— Sienkiewicz. 

29. LIKE CHRIST.— Murray. 



32. MESSAGE OF PEACE, THE.— Church. 

33. MORNING THOUGHTS.— Havergal. 

34. MY KING AND HIS SERVICE.— Havergal. 


WORLD. — Drummond. 



38. PATHWAY OF SAFETY.-Oxenden. 







44. SHEPHERD PSALM.— Mever. 






50. WITH CHRIST.-Murray. 




Limp cloth binding, gold top, illuminated title and 
frontispiece, 35 cents. 










10. KING HENRY IV. (Part I). 

11. KING HENRY IV. (Part II). 


13. KING HENRY VI. (Part I). 

14. KING HENRY VI. (Part II). 

15. KING HENRY VI. (Part III). 

























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